


Another Sun That's Brighter Still

by Omi_Ohmy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 17:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1866759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco’s parents are trying to force him to marry – just because of some stupid family curse – but Draco isn’t willing to settle for second best. After rejecting one suitor too many, he’s handfasted to a stinky and ragged minstrel and sent off without a Knut to his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Sun That's Brighter Still

**Author's Note:**

> This submission is part of HD Smoochfest on Livejournal. The theme this year is Media Remix, which invited participants to "remix" the story from a Book, Movie, or Television Show. The author/artist will be revealed at the end of the fest.
> 
> This was created for Prompt Number: B10  
> Original Work Name: [King Thrushbeard (Fairytale)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/King_Thrushbeard)
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.
> 
> Author's Notes: I’ve always had a fascination for stories like King Thrushbeard (The Taming of the Shrew is another that springs to mind) despite a sense of unease around some of the themes. Writing this story was a great chance to work out what I like about the trope, and to write a story that I can be happy with. I wanted, I realised, to focus on a humility without humiliation. I hope I’ve managed it. The two songs quoted in the fic are the Neapolitan song ’O Sole Mio (from which I’ve also taken the title), and Do The Hippogriff, from the Goblet of Fire film.
> 
> Thank you to my prereader Indyonblue, and to my beta Evilgiraff. And thank you to the wonderful mods to this fest, who are always so helpful and, ahem, generous.

The flickering light of hundreds of candles and fairies softened the lines on his father’s face, but Draco could see the displeasure written there as plain as day. As he listened to some simpering idiot witter on about what great sport there was to be had in gnome hunting, Draco glanced back over at his parents. His mother, chin tilted up and the diamonds at her neck sparkling mutely, had his father’s ear.  
  
Draco made his excuses and moved on. His mother’s disapproval – and desperation – were clear from the other side of the room. He wasn’t surprised when a few minutes later, he felt her cool touch on his arm.  
  
“Darling, have you met Jeremy Hodstone?” She inclined her head to a rosy-cheeked man.  
  
“Always a pleasure to meet so charming a man,” Hodstone said. As Hodstone gave a half-bow, Draco feared for the buttons on Hodstone’s robe: the fabric was bunching alarmingly under his arms and pulling tight at the waist.  
  
Draco inclined his head. “I’m sure,” he said coolly, and then said no more. He noted the wine stain on the too-tight robes, and the man’s rosy cheeks. Merlin, where did they find these people?  
  
Hodstone’s eyes widened, and he took a sip from his wine glass. He stank of fear, and a bead of sweat began to roll down his already-shiny forehead.  
  
“Oh look, mother: isn’t that Madame Featherstone?” Draco grasped his mother’s elbow, and steered her away. “You must excuse us!” he called over his shoulder.  
  
“Must you be so rude?” Narcissa hissed.  
  
“He looked like a wine barrel. I rather suspect he  _was_ a wine barrel.”  
  
“He’s the second-richest wizard in England!”  
  
“If you’re going to insist on setting me up with one of these… people,” Draco sneered the word out, “then at least offer me someone presentable.”  
  
“We have to do this, you know we do. Now stop being such an insufferable child and try not to scare any potential suitors away.”  
  
Draco shuddered at the word ‘suitors’. When he’d been at Hogwarts, with Greg and Vince tripping over their feet to keep up with him and Pansy accidentally letting her hands graze a little too low in their dance classes, he’d never imagined he’d be reduced to the indignity of being paraded around like a prime cut of Malfoy meat.  
  
He smiled, knowing that he showed off his perfectly white teeth as he did so, and bowed his head. He’d managed to keep his parents from actually marrying him off for months now; he was sure that he could stop them for at least a few more. As long as he remembered to flirt from time to time, and made sure he always looked good, they couldn’t complain.  
  
Of course, smiling prettily was hard to do when the person you were talking to had half-chewed parsley leaf stuck to their teeth. Or were all bones and far too tall for Draco.  
  
“This one can’t even stand up straight!” He whispered to his mother after she presented him with yet another ‘second-richest wizard in Britain’. Draco was beginning to suspect that his parents would be willing to sell him off to any old codger, provided his coffers were deep enough. Well, he was going to ensure that Lucius and Narcissa were under no illusions about his own high standards.  
  
Emboldened by a glass of champagne, Draco began to point out the flaws of the wizards in the room before his mother could go through the indignity of introducing them. It was best, Draco found, to be firm about such things.  
  
“Look at that one. You’re not trying to sell me off to a vampire are you? He’s pale as death.”  
  
Beside him, Draco felt Narcissa tremble. Perhaps he shouldn’t have mentioned death. Lord Voldy had been pretty pale, hadn’t he? He swallowed down distaste at the thought.  
  
“And… good grief! Look at him.” Draco pointed at a man at the far end of the hall, dressed in stupid Gryffindor-red robes and sporting the hugest beard Draco had ever seen, all black and bushy “It’s like Hagrid’s head stuck on top of a tiny little cloak.” He giggled at his own joke. “I expect he keeps a birds nest in there. A nest of thrushes.” He took another sip of champagne. “Thrushbeard!”  
  
The man – Thrushbeard – turned towards Draco. Something about his face looked familiar. Draco tilted his head to consider where he’d seen the man before. Despite the huge beard, it felt as though there was a missing—  
  
“That’s enough!” Lucius’s voice was loud enough to make those nearest turn around and stare. One look at the family group – and presumably his parents’ scowling faces – and they all suddenly displayed an overwhelming urge to make small talk elsewhere.  
  
Draco swallowed. His father must have joined them at some point, but how much had he heard? As though reading his mind, Lucius came to stand facing Draco. His brows were dipped into a frown, and there was ice in his eyes as he shook his head. “I heard everything you said. Merlin, Draco, I could hear you from halfway across the room!”  
  
“I only—”  
  
“I’m beyond caring about your excuses!” He drew closer to Draco, hissing the next words out quietly. “The terms of the family curse are very clear: you must marry by the age of twenty five, or we are all doomed to die one family member a year until you do. I cannot believe that you would continue to act in so flippant a manner about this matter.”  
  
“There’s plenty of time before I turn twenty five,” said Draco, as quickly as he could.  
  
“So you think it’s a good idea to  _hope_ you find someone in time? Gamble with our futures?”  
  
“No, I—” Draco ‘s throat was tight. “I—”  
  
“It’s not up to you. We tried to give you some semblance of choice in this matter, but we were obviously wasting our time. If we waited for you to choose someone, you would fritter away your days simpering into mirrors and cavorting with your useless friends. And we would be the ones who suffered for it!”  
  
Draco turned to his mother, but her lips were held in a tight line as she held onto his father and shook her head.  
  
“Tonight was your last chance, darling.” She sighed. “Your father and I are agreed on this.”  
  
“We’ve given you the option of men or women, wealth, good looks and as a respectable a family history as the Malfoy name and vaults can attract. You’ve rejected every single witch and wizard we’ve presented to you, so now we’re changing the rules. The first person – the more ill-fitting the better, as far as I’m concerned – to turn up at Malfoy Manor after this fiasco can have you. Hand bonded and wedded.”  
  
“You can’t!”  
  
“This is my house. Believe me when I say I can.” The lights dimmed, and a hush fell across the room, followed by nervous laughter and shouts. Lucius raised his wand and Draco recognised the movements he made: he was tying his oath to magic. The chandeliers shook overhead, and then the candles flared and Lucius’ voice rang around the room. “The party’s over! All of you can go home now. Leave!”  
  
Draco was left alone in the centre of the room, trembling. Before he could work out what to do next, how to escape this fate, an elderly house-elf appeared and Apparated them both to his room. As soon as the house-elf had Disapparrated, Draco tried the door, the Floo and the windows: all were locked. He sat on his bed and sank his head into his hands. His father had seemed so grim, so determined. Draco could see no way out of this mess.  
  
*  
  
After a long night, filled with fruitless attempts at escape, some tears and several smashed vases and other ornaments, Draco woke from a fitful, thin sleep, to the sound of clattering below his window.  
  
 _“Che bella cosa è na jurnata ’e sole—“_  
  
Was that… singing? Rich and warm, if rather drunken sounding.  
  
 _“—n’aria serena dopo na tempesta!”_  
  
He hopped out of bed so he could see who it was. A man — or at least Draco thought it was a man, it was hard to tell through the rags — was standing on the gravel below. A window below creaked open, but the man continued singing.  
  
 _“Pe’ ll’aria fresca para già na festa..._  
 _Che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole.”_  
  
“What is this racket?” Lucius sounded annoyed. “And how did you get past our wards?”  
  
“You left them open, remember dear? ‘To let any old vagabond in’.” Narcissa’s voice wafted out from the room below.  
  
“Oh yes. Well, it seems to have worked.”  
  
 _“Ma n’atu sole cchiù bello, oi ne’,_  
 _’o sole mio sta nfronte a te!”_  
  
“Enough! You, singing man, stop!”  
  
The singer brought his arms in from where he had been gesturing wildly, and bowed deeply.  
  
“M’lord,” he said, and hiccupped. “I come to offer my services as a mis– mint– minstrel,” he pronounced carefully, as only the very drunk can. “I wish to sing for a Knut or two. Or even a Sickle, if you have any lying about.”  
  
“I told you taking the wards down was a silly idea.”  
  
“I’ve got something better. Or not, depending on your point of view.”  
  
“Lucius! You can’t!” Draco’s mother’s voice rose in panic.  
  
A sickening sense of dread bloomed in Draco’s stomach. Surely his own father wouldn’t give him away to a beggar at the door? He threw on some clothes, and tried the door. It was unlocked, and he hurried downstairs.  
  
Panting slightly as he paused outside the breakfast room, Draco checked his appearance in a hallway mirror. Being around his father always made him nervous and he never felt he could afford to betray any kind of weakness. Draco took a deep breath and walked in.  
  
“There you are.” Lucius was standing by the fireplace, the ragged minstrel beside him. He looked even worse close up: there was dirt smeared across his face, his dark hair formed a chaotic and twig-filled mess, and Draco could smell the booze on him from the doorway. The minstrel nodded dumbly at Draco, a bright smile on his face.  
  
“Father, you can’t—”  
  
“Did I say that you could speak?” Lucius looked over at the breakfast table. “Sit down and shut up.” He began to pace, the sound of his footsteps swallowed by the rug by the fire. Draco chose the chair nearest his mother. She hadn’t touched any of the food on her plate and looked up at Draco with wide eyes. She looked miserable, but when she tried to reach out to touch his hand he pulled back and folded his arms.  
  
“This is all your fault for making such a fuss last night,” he whispered.  
  
Narcissa’s hand dropped into her own lap. “Oh, Draco. You’ve brought this all on yourself, without any help from me.”  
  
The deep rumble of a man’s voice brought Draco’s attention back to his father and his… guest.  
  
“I’m not sure—” The minstrel glanced over at Draco. “I really was only hoping for a few coins.”  
  
“Nonsense! You can have my son. I insist. And besides,” Lucius rolled up his sleeve to reveal the lightly glowing lines laced around his wrist, “I made a magical oath and must keep my word. I think some form of gifting ceremony will satisfy it.”  
  
“Gifting ceremony?”  
  
“Handfasting; something akin to marriage. I’m giving you my son.”  
  
The minstrel glanced at Lucius’ wrist, and swallowed before speaking. He slipped his wand free from his sleeve and cast a spell on himself: presumably a sobering one, as he stood a little straighter and his eyes focused. “I’m not sure what I’ve walked into, and I know that a magical oath must be obeyed. But,” he swallowed, “marriage?”  
  
“Consider him free labour—”  
  
“I am still here, you know!”  
  
Lucius turned to Draco and gave him a cold stare. “A handfasting would satisfy the oath I made last night, but more importantly it would lift the curse on the Malfoy family. You might learn something from this… man,” Lucius glanced over at the minstrel, the slight twitch of a lip the only sign that he didn’t find the sight of a dirt-smeared face pleasing, “and besides, you have your wand: you’re not going to be in any danger.”  
  
Draco remembered then that his father hadn’t been too concerned about leaving him in the hands of dangerous men: compared to Voldy and his henchmen, a ragged minstrel was nothing. And Draco had been planning on finding someone suitable, in the end. Whatever his parents thought, he didn’t want to ruin his family.  
  
The minstrel watched both of them, his lips twisted to one side, as though trying to puzzle out what was happening. He was probably an idiot, and Draco felt confident that he could get his own way without much effort. Yes, perhaps this would work: a short-lived association – a month or two should do it – without all the hassle of a society wedding or a longer-term commitment. And after that maybe he’d finally be free to live his life as he chose.  
  
There was no way he was going to give in graciously, though.  
  
“I’m not some trinket to give away,” Draco said. “I’m your son. And I’m not spending the rest of my life with—”  
  
Lucius narrowed his eyes. “I never said anything about the rest of your life. Your mother and I have made countless sacrifices for you, and now it is your turn.”  
  
Sacrifices? His father was delusional. Draco opened his mouth to speak, but then thought better of it. His father, he had long ago learned, was not a man to reason with.  
  
A glint of triumph lit Lucius’ eyes as he turned back to the minstrel, who was warily staring at the two of them.  
  
“You will take the boy, and if you are not happy with him you may return him in three months’ time.”  
  
“Three months?” The minstrel frowned.  
  
Lucius shrugged. “Free labour. Companionship.”  
  
Draco began to tremble. “I’m not sure—”  
  
Narcissa cleared her throat. “It’s decided. Come along Draco, we must pack.”  
  
Everything was happening too fast, and Draco looked at his mother in confusion. He’d only begun to think that he might grasp the idea that his father was actually suggesting that he go off with this stranger. He wasn’t expecting to actually leave that moment.  
  
“About that,” the minstrel shuffled from one foot to the other. “I flew here; is there any chance of a broom for your boy? Unless he wants to share, of course.”  
  
“I’ve got a broom,” Draco said quickly, dreading the idea of having to ride with someone else. He hadn’t done that since Potter saved him from the flames— He clenched his hands in fists in his lap and clamped the thought down.  
  
“And er, pack light. I don’t have much space to fit you in.”  
  
“Wonderful,” Draco muttered as his mother stood and gestured for Draco to do the same. “Just wonderful.”  
  
*  
  
Narcissa had teared up a little when Draco made his reluctant farewells, but any hope that her resolve would weaken was dashed when she waved him off and turned back to the house.  
  
Draco was left alone with the minstrel, standing beside the curved ‘M’s of the iron gates at the end of the driveway. A blackbird sang nearby, but the lilting music did little to lift Draco’s spirits. The minstrel’s face was filthy, but his eyes sparkled as he watched Draco struggle to fit his small trunk onto his broom.  
  
“I told you to pack light.”  
  
“This  _is_  me packing light.”  
  
The minstrel – ‘Henry’, as Draco had only found out while he was packing – slid his wand out from his sleeve again, and pointed at Draco’s trunk. “May I?”  
  
Draco nodded, and Henry shrank the trunk. Draco stowed it in his robes, and cursed himself for not thinking to do that himself. He could have packed a lot more if he’d thought to shrink it all.  
  
They mounted their brooms and kicked off, Draco following Henry in a lazy swoop up high. Henry rode his broom well, and something about the way he gripped the shaft looked familiar. Thoughts of others hunched over their brooms, Quidditch robes flapping behind them rose to mind. As they rose higher and the wind began to whistle through Draco’s hair he pushed harder, Henry matching his pace.  
  
The morning sun warm on his face, Draco closed his eyes as he inhaled and enjoyed the illusion of freedom. Up here, in the air, there were no family curses or magical oaths. Draco could almost pretend that there were no wandering minstrels, either.  
  
Henry Singer, the singer. Draco had sniggered when Henry had told him his full name. What a ridiculous name.  
  
Henry manoeuvred his broom closer to Draco’s, forcing Draco to glance over. Henry’s cheeks were flushed and his eyes brighter than before. They were actually very attractive eyes, brilliant blue framed in heavy dark lashes. Alarmed at the thought that he could find anything about this man attractive, Draco gritted his teeth and focused on flying.  
  
When sun had reached its highest point in the sky and Draco’s collar was damp with sweat, they flew down to a clearing in a forest. Fresh bright leaves adorned the trees, and yellow buttercups dotted the grass beneath their feet. A fallen tree lay on the ground, grass growing from the earth still trapped between its upturned roots.  
  
“I don’t always look like this,” the minstrel said. His voice was slightly gruff, as though he’d been shouting into the wind. He gestured down at his robes and touched his smudged face. “I crashed through a tree on the way to your house.”  
  
“You’re not selling yourself, here,” Draco said. Stupid or clumsy, this man didn’t deserve to have him. He prodded the ground. “I can’t possibly sit here,” he said. “Do you have a house-elf you can call with seating or blankets?”  
  
Henry stared at Draco, then laughed. “A house-elf? Chance would be a fine thing,” he muttered. “No; you’ll have to cope with the possibility of a slightly damp behind like the rest of us.” He sat down, crossing his legs and leaning back against the fallen tree.  
  
Draco’s behind was currently a little stiff and sore from sitting on the broom, so after a moment’s hesitation he patted down a section of grass and sat down. Henry rooted around in a bag he’d had tucked into the pockets of robes, and pulled out a bread roll.  
  
“It’s just bread and cheese,” he said. “But I made it fresh this morning, and I’m happy to share it with you.”  
  
Draco eyed the bread suspiciously. It hadn’t been wrapped in anything, and he didn’t know what else Henry was carrying in that bag. He hadn’t been given any evidence so far that Henry was capable of doing anything with much success: if he had been able to cope with life, surely he wouldn’t be singing for money and living in rags?  
  
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”  
  
Henry’s gaze felt like a heavy weight as it rested on Draco. He tore his roll in half and held some of it out for Draco, who shook his head and clasped his hands together in his lap. Henry shrugged. “If you say so.”  
  
Draco refused to watch Henry eat. He hadn’t been able to stomach anything back at home, and he was still feeling a little queasy. Whether from his excesses the night before, or the whole sorry debacle of being ‘married’ off, Draco did not know nor really care.  
  
When Henry pulled out a water bottle, Draco couldn’t help but lick his lips. The sun bore down with a gentle but persistent heat, and he was thirsty. This time, though, Henry didn’t offer Draco any. Instead, he took a long swig, capped his bottle and then stashed it away.  
  
“We have to keep going, or we won’t get there by nightfall.”  
  
“And why can’t we Apparate?”  
  
“It’s too far. And I like the feeling of sun and wind on my skin. You’re just soft from sitting around in that fancy pile of yours.”  
  
“I am not  _soft_.”  
  
“No? Stand up, then.”  
  
Draco braced himself against the ground and tried to stand up as gracefully as possible. Merlin, but his arse was cold and damp and his legs ached! He smiled at Henry, trying to hide his discomfort as he got to his feet. “I’m fine.”  
  
“Good.” Henry looked as though he didn’t believe Draco. “We’ve got hours of flying left.”  
  
Draco thought of the narrow hardness of his broomstick, and grimaced. “Wonderful.”  
  
“I can cast a charm on your broom, make the ride more comfortable.”  
  
Draco bristled. “I don’t need your help, thank you. This is a Silversweep X1, not some half-rotten lump of wood like yours.”  
  
*  
  
Two hours later, Draco was beginning to regret turning down the offer of help. The day was proving to be hot and uncomfortable, and by the time they stopped again – this time on the outskirts of a town – Draco was sore and hungry.  
  
He tried to keep a spring in his step as they walked through the sleepy town. He didn’t want Henry thinking he was weak.  
  
Grander stone buildings in a range of cool whites stood alongside timber-framed buildings that leant into the road. Muggles wandered around with sun-reddened shoulders and carrying those horrible plastic bags in their sweaty hands. Draco was relieved when Henry pulled them towards an ivy-covered wall and took them through to the wizarding part of town.  
  
As the approached the town’s main pub, Draco smiled. At last, the chance for a proper meal and maybe even a drink. Judging by the stink of booze on Henry, he wouldn’t be averse to a quick pint. Henry, however, had other ideas, and strode past the pub. He didn’t stop until they’d reached a small shop down a dark alley.  
  
Remembering Borgin and Burkes, Draco stepped through expecting to see Dark artefacts. Instead he was greeted by dusty shelves filled with pots with illegible labels.  
  
“Is this a Potions shop?”  
  
“No,” Henry replied. “Worse. It’s an art shop.”  
  
“Why aren’t there any paintings on the wall?”  
  
“Paintings? Oh. No; it sells arts supplies. Shh.” Henry moved in front of Draco as a portly witch emerged from the back.  
  
“Ooh, you again? Run out so soon?”  
  
Henry shook his head. “Bad batch. I lost a week’s work.” He carefully counted out some coins from a pocket, then exchanged them for a collection of small bags. All the while, the witch kept glancing over at Draco. He began to feel a hot prickle at the back of his neck, and was grateful when Henry whisked them both out of the shop and into the fresh air.  
  
“You’re an artist, as well as a wandering minstrel? Great. No wonder you’re so very wealthy.” Draco kicked forlornly at a loose cobble. Henry said nothing, and Draco felt his back tighten in annoyance. He went to kick another stone, but managed to catch himself on a particularly stubborn one instead and tripped, falling straight into Henry’s arms. He couldn’t help but wince as Henry dragged him up: he really was very sore from all the flying.  
  
“Oh, you–” Henry stopped short. “I don’t care whether you want me to or not, I’m going to cast that cushioning charm on your broom. And we’re going to get you something to eat. I’m not having you faint on me.”  
  
“I didn’t faint! I trip—”  
  
“I know. But you’re not far off, are you?”  
  
“I—” Draco’s stomach rumbled loudly. “I might be a bit hungry, actually,” he said. Everything was beginning to swirl slightly at the edges, and he was grateful for Henry’s arm to steady him as they headed back in the direction of the pub. Henry chose to settle in the shade of its beer garden, but Draco was too tired to complain about being stuck outdoors again. He longed for a bath and a good meal, and peace and quiet. Instead he had to bat a few bees away and was given water and some bread and cheese.  
  
Once Draco had eaten, though, he began to feel much better. He sat back and looked around at the ivy-covered walls and group of middle-aged wizards with pints in the corner. “I don’t recognise this place: I thought I knew all the wizarding places in Britain.”  
  
“The wizarding part was only added a few years ago. It’s some regeneration project – you know, to bring the wizarding world closer to the Muggle one, raise awareness and so on.”  
  
“Whose idea was that?”  
  
“The wizard you so wittingly called ‘Thrushbeard’ last night.”  
  
“He carries enough clout to set up a whole town?”  
  
Henry shrugged. “I guess so.”  
  
Draco thought back to the man with the huge beard. He had looked totally ridiculous, but maybe he really had been as powerful as his mother had told him. He looked over at Henry. In the heat of the day, the ragged robes had been shrunk then stowed away in a pocket. Henry was wearing a coarse linen shirt, and it was slightly damp with perspiration, half sticking to him in places. His powerful shoulders seemed out of keeping with the down-on-his-luck look, but then Draco knew very little about this man. He sighed: his life, apparently, was now full of the unknown. He wondered how his friends were doing. Did Pansy miss him? How had she taken the news?  
  
In the past few months he’d seen her curling her hair around a finger and laughing at his jokes. Pretending not to notice, Draco had known that she’d wanted him to marry her, to satisfy the family curse and fulfil whatever schoolgirl crush she held onto. But he couldn’t bring himself to, no more than he could accept any of his parents’ suggested suitors. After the stupid war and the humiliation of seeing his family kowtow to a madman, Draco had sworn he’d never let anyone else decide how he lived his life again.  
  
Some small part of him, a tiny voice in the back of his head, wanted fireworks and love and passion, too. It died down though, at the sight of the near beggar to whom he’d been given.  
  
So much for control, and so much for love. He didn’t speak again until they reached the edge of town again, and Henry cast the cushioning charm on his broom. As soon as they’d taken off he could feel the difference: he actually felt comfortable on his broom. To celebrate, Draco flew in a giant sweep up into the air. He looked over and saw that Henry had kept up with him, a grin on his face. They raced on until they were both laughing.  
  
At least up here Draco could pretend he was free.  
  
*  
  
As the sun began to sink towards the horizon, they swept low over a grand house, all pale stone walls and elegant window. The stone glowed golden in the setting sun.  
  
“What place is that?” asked Draco.  
  
“Minplebury Hall.”  
  
“Is it wizarding or Muggle?” Draco was curious because he could see no sign of wizarding occupancy, yet could detect a faint pulse of magic in the background.  
  
“Both,” said Henry. “It was wizarding for generations, but the family all but died out and it fell into ruin. Then an heir was found and he restored it. He doesn’t live there though: he runs it as a business. A hotel, for Muggles and wizards alike.”  
  
“A hotel?” Draco didn’t think that he approved. Where was the pride in that?  
  
“It was too big for one man to live in.”  
  
“I don’t remember hearing about this.”  
  
“He kept it fairly quiet. It’s only opened relatively recently.”  
  
“He…?”  
  
Henry swung closer on his broom, until he was near enough that Draco could see the stitches on the patches of his robes. “The bushy-faced one. Thrushbeard.”  
  
“Oh for…” Draco swooped to avoid a bird. “Does he own everything around here?”  
  
“Near enough: the hills and that lake are his, too. And the woods.”  
  
So maybe his parents were right. Thrushbeard really was rich. The land that Henry had pointed out covered at least twice the area of Malfoy Manor. With that beard though, Draco was sure the man was an idiot. Yes, that would explain why he’d been forced to turn his ancestral home into a hotel, of all things. He was probably totally incompetent – if vastly wealthy – and things like the town were projects based on off-hand suggestions he’d made to people with more brains and power.  
  
Draco followed Henry down to the hills, until they had come to a meadow at the edge of the woods. Nestled amongst the trees was a small stone building, just visible in the purple twilight.  
  
“Are we stopping again before we go on? It’s not much further, is it?”  
  
Henry laughed and shook his head. “This is it. My home, and now yours too.”  
  
“Home…?” Draco faltered. The place looked one storm away from being a ruin, with lichen growing on the stones and patch-jobs of different sized and coloured stone visible along its walls. It was also tiny: he could see only two windows and a door. No upstairs.  
  
“Come on. I’ll show you around. It’ll only take a minute.” Henry chuckled and Draco scowled. He opened the door to the small cottage – it was unlocked, Draco noticed – and stepped aside to let Draco in.  
  
A wood-burning stove sat in a low fireplace to the right of the room, with a small sofa along the back wall and an armchair opposite. The walls looked rough, painted a chalky white and there was the faintest smell of damp in the air. Draco peered around the front door and saw a small kitchen area along the rest of the back wall, and a drop-leaf table behind the door. Beyond was a door and a large curtain.  
  
“Er,” Henry said. “Living room and kitchen. “And this,” he said, pulling back the curtain to reveal a double bed pushed up the wall, in an alcove made by a built-out corner with a door in it, “is the bedroom and the bathroom.” The world’s smallest bathroom, judging by the space it took up. Something other than the size of bathroom held most of Draco’s attention, though.  
  
“One bedroom. One bed.”  
  
“Yes, well. I wasn’t expecting to come home with a spouse.”  
  
“Don’t call me that.”  
  
Henry sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anything like this to happen. Although if I had brought someone home I suppose one bed wouldn’t matter—” He stopped when he saw Draco’s face.  
  
“If you have some blankets I’ll be fine on the sofa.”  
  
“Of course.” Henry moved towards the kitchen area, and opened a suspiciously bare cupboard. “Are you hungry?” he asked, his head still poking into the cupboard. He looked like he might climb in. “I’ve got some bread. And, er, some cheese.”  
  
“Bread and cheese. Again?”  
  
“That’s all I’ve got,” Henry said, flushing slightly. “Like I said, I wasn’t expecting company.”  
  
Draco had learned his lesson that morning; he remembered clearly the gnawing ache of hunger in his gut. It wasn’t a feeling he’d experienced much before in his life. Even in the darkest days of the war, there had been house-elves to tend to his physical needs at least, and food aplenty.  
  
“Yes, please. Some bread and cheese would be delightful.”  
  
A smile lit Henry’s face, making him look younger and more vulnerable somehow. “Good.”  
  
Draco looked away. That hopeful, bashful smile seemed like a weakness to him. He was used to pushing against his father, pushing against his mother. A happy minstrel seemed far beyond his experience. Instead, he put his things down by the sofa, then sat down at the table. He didn’t wince as much as he’d thought he would as he lowered himself into the chair.  
  
“Did that cushioning charm help?”  
  
“Yes, it did.” Draco glanced back over at Henry, but now he was busy getting their meagre supper ready and all he could see was the mess of hair on his head, and the broadness of his shoulders. “I’ve not seen a charm quite like it, before. It didn’t just make the broom feel soft, it made it feel as though I were sitting on a seat made just for me.”  
  
“It’s new,” Henry said, the words mangled slightly as he popped a corner of bread in his mouth. “Sorry.” He swallowed, and came to sit at the table with two thick earthen plates and some bread, cheese, and apples. “Its use is spreading: once you try it, you never go back.”  
  
Draco nodded, grateful for a neutral topic of conversation. He could see now that his life was going to be an endless series of conversations about the weather, shared over boring meals that were the same each day. “I’m sure it will be very popular.”  
  
“He’s a clever man.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
“Thrushbeard,” Henry said with a grin. “He invented it.”  
  
Draco fixed a smile on his face and nodded again, but he tore into his bread with more force than necessary. Thrushbeard, again. So the man was rich and powerful and perhaps not an idiot after all. His beard had been ridiculous, but maybe Draco shouldn’t have dismissed him quite so quickly. He chewed and swallowed. There was no point dwelling on it now, because here he was, most certainly not with a talented, all-powerful wizard of means.  
  
Even though he was hungry, the meal was still hard to get down.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, as Draco tried to stretch out, he wished that he’d asked Henry to cast the cushioning charm on the sofa. He was too long for it and he’d spent the night either curled up uncomfortably, or with his legs hanging off the end. He sat up, and looked around the room. In the morning light, it was still small. He couldn’t see anywhere to put his things, so after he’d taken out clothes for the day, he re-shrank his trunk and left it on the windowsill.  
  
Henry, naturally, appeared to be in a fine mood. He always seemed to be smiling, and nothing seemed to have ruffled him; not even being gifted with the Malfoy heir. The smiles were absent though, when Henry sat them down with a pot of tea and some thick slices of toast.  
  
“You might have noticed that there’s not much to eat here at the moment.”  
  
“It’s not been a banquet, exactly.”  
  
“Yes, well.” Henry flushed. “I’m sure you’re used to all sorts when you’re with your parents. I’m pretty certain,” he added, looking directly at Draco, “that you don’t know what it is to be hungry – truly hungry.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “But you do,” he said softly.  
  
“That doesn’t matter now. I… what I’m trying to say is that I make just enough to get by – I sing, and I make and sell pots locally.”  
  
“Pots?”  
  
“Cups, jugs, bowls. This tea pot.” He traced a finger over the handle of the teapot.  
  
“This?” Draco looked down in surprise at the heavy but elegant teapot, its surface a mottle of blue glaze over brown pottery.  
  
“I made all the cups and plates here.”  
  
Each plate, Draco had noticed the night before, was different. A range of browns, greens, blues and oranges echoed the landscape outside the window. Simple shapes and a comforting weight in the hand: it was everything the crockery at the Manor was not. Rather like the way that Henry was rough where the people Draco was accustomed to spending time with were polished and smooth.  
  
“They’re lovely.” Draco meant the words, but he knew that they sounded hollow. “I didn’t know you were a potter. I thought you were a minstrel.”  
  
“Thank you.” Henry ducked his head slightly. “I sing, I make pottery and I dabble in this and that. But the point is that I make enough to feed me – to feed one person – and to keep my workshop running.” He looked up. “Now that you’re here, you’re going to have to contribute to the household.”  
  
“Contribute? I didn’t bring any money with me; my father said I couldn’t have any—”  
  
“I know what he said, and I agree: I mar—”  
  
“Don’t say the words.”  
  
“—I… agreed to fulfilling the magical oath and brought you back with me, but I didn’t want you to think that I did so to get wealthy. Money really isn’t important to me.”  
  
“I can see that.” Draco glanced again at the tiny home.  
  
Henry’s face hardened a little. “I expect you to share the household chores: cooking, cleaning, feeding the hens, and so on.”  
  
For some reason it didn’t surprise Draco at all that Henry had chickens. He made his own pots: of course he kept chickens, too. Panic began to rise at the thought of having to cook and clean.  
  
“Cooking? Cleaning? I’m afraid I don’t really have any experience of either of those.”  
  
“It doesn’t take much. And I can show you the basics. I’m not asking you to do all of it, just your fair share.”  
  
“Fine.” Draco couldn’t believe that he was agreeing to working like a house-elf at menial tasks for no recompense. “But what about money to buy the food to cook in the first place?”  
  
“That’s the other way you can contribute. I thought I could show you how to weave a small bowl and then you could sell what you make at the market in the local town.”  
  
“Right.” Draco’s head felt light, and he took a sip of tea to try to steady himself a little. “You want me to weave baskets?”  
  
“And pick and prepare the reeds to make them. I’ve got a store of reeds and rushes from last summer, but I think it’s important for you to understand the material you’re working with.”  
  
The tea was helping, a little. Unfortunately it wasn’t enough to persuade Draco that this was all some surreal dream, and that he’d wake back home. The grey and brown dirt ingrained under Henry’s nails and in his clothes were too real a detail for any dream. Draco ignored the fluttering rising in his chest, and put his mug down. “When do we get started, then?” He was proud of himself for not wavering as he asked. There was no way that he was going to show a moment of weakness in front of this stranger. He may never have woven a basket before, but he’d been good at every subject at school: why shouldn’t he excel in this, too?  
  
*  
  
Henry had insisted on showing Draco how to wash up. The humiliation of having to learn such a lowly task was made worse by Henry’s constant quiet chatter. He did indeed talk about the weather, and his dratted chickens. Draco didn’t really care if Henry had raised them from eggs, or that they thought Henry was their mother and followed him around. As far as Draco was concerned, chickens were nice roasted with potatoes; they didn’t need names like ‘Daisy’ or ‘Ethel’.  
  
The only compensating factor was that he and Henry had to stand side by side at the sink. Henry was warm, and his body solid. He smelt of sweat and wood smoke and although some part of Draco whispered, “Filthy,” to himself, the rest of him quite liked it. Henry was just so undeniably… a man. He was nothing like the primped and scented men and women of his parents’ acquaintance. In fact, he was far closer to the men Draco secretly day dreamed about: Quidditch players, all muscle and sweat and determination.  
  
Any idea that Henry could be someone of interest in that way faded fast on the way down to the river. Henry chattered on, pointing out the shed-like structure and awning that housed his pottery workshop and kiln, and opined about the optimum temperatures for bisque firing and glaze firing as they went. Draco didn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but nodded every now and then anyway. Henry ambled along, his arms swinging wide as he gesticulated and shaped invisible pots with his hands.  
  
The river curved in from the right, forming a dip in the bright green of early summer. They walked along a narrow but well-worn path through long grass dotted with wildflowers, only stopping when they reached the water’s edge. To the left a willow draped down to the water, but Draco assumed that it was the clumps of tall leaves growing out of the water that they were there to see. The grass was shorter on the river bank, and Henry set down the bag he’d been carrying.  
  
“These reeds will do,” Henry said, as he pulled out a small sickle and a ball of twine. “I don’t want to waste my stores on your beginner attempts. They might not be full height, but there’s enough here to get you started.”  
  
“I thought this was about ‘learning to understand the materials’?” said Draco, affronted at the suggestion that he’d be no good at basket weaving. He’d always associated the activity with the spell-damaged at St Mungo’s. Surely he, in possession of his full faculties, would be able to manage fine.  
  
“That too,” Henry said. He grinned before adding, “But I bet you’ve never done a day’s work, have you? This will all be new to you.”  
  
“I—” Draco stopped. Henry had a point. “I’m a quick learner. And look at these hands,” he flexed his fingers in front of him, “these are the hands of an artist! I should be fine.”  
  
“Whatever you say.” Henry waded into the river.  
  
Draco watched in horror at Henry’s soaked trousers and possibly ruined boots. “No wonder you look such a mess.”  
  
Henry turned to face him. “What was that?”  
  
“Er… What should I do now?”  
  
“Get in the water, and I’ll show you how to cut these.”  
  
Grumbling, Draco removed his shoes and socks, then rolled up his trouser legs. The water was cold, but he gritted his teeth and stepped in. He tried not to notice the squelching mud or the dark shadows of half-rotted leaves that clung between the reeds and the river bank. His lungs filled with the loamy scent of earth and water. It felt like it was swallowing him up: the air and the water and all the plants growing around him. Draco attempted to ignore the sensation, and focused instead on holding the small blade the way Henry told him to.  
  
By the time Draco had amassed a satisfactory bundle of rushes, his fingers were numb from the cold water. Draco carefully dried his feet with a spell. Henry cast a quick drying spell at his own legs and feet, steam rising as he did so. He stood with his arms folding, and watched as Draco tied his shoelaces.  
  
“Are you always so slow to get things done?”  
  
“Are you always in such a rush? I bet your socks have shrunk and your toes itch.”  
  
“Maybe. But life’s too short to waste on worrying about the state of my socks.” Henry laughed. “You should see my clothes when I’ve been working with clay. A little river water’s nothing in comparison.” An image rose, unbidden, of Henry’s hands – strong, certain, and skilled – working with clay.  
  
As they trudged back to the house, Draco’s fingers began to warm and he noticed the sting of scratches and nicks from the reeds. The sensation faded beside his uncertainty of what was going to happen next. His days were usually filled with wandering the halls of Malfoy Manor alone, or sitting through stifling meals with his parents and their questions about his future. To follow Henry around like this, wading into rivers and being expected to do housework, left Draco feeling as though the compass of his life had gone awry somehow. He was moving through a world that was unknown to him, with strange new rules and expectations.  
  
“…Hazel, Ash, Oak, Sycamore, Birch… oh, and some Cherry trees, too.”  
  
Draco looked over at Henry, who was happily explaining something about the woods. He seemed so bright and cheerful, as though he were talking to an old friend, and not some stranger who’d suddenly landed in his life. A strange new feeling began to build inside Draco, one that was uncertain and that quivered as much as any leaf on a tree. He let Henry talk on, not saying anything at all.  
  
*  
  
“As these are so fresh they should be pliable enough to work,” Henry said. He selected a few well-matched rushes, and laid them out in a neat pattern on the table. Draco watched carefully, eager to show Henry that he was a quick study. The weaving seemed fairly simple to grasp, a simple under-and-over pattern. Henry’s carefree aspect changed when he explaining the techniques needed to make a basket. His body seemed to focus in the task at hand, his shoulders and his arms forming a tight frame within which the action took place. Henry confused Draco: one minute he was walking into a muddy river with his shoes on, the next he was talking with authority and in precise terms.  
  
Draco attempted to emulate Henry’s focus when he worked with rushes. Under, over, he wove the long leaves. They were indeed pliable, but manoeuvring them according to Henry’s exacting standards proved tricky. Draco’s already sore fingers began to ache, but he bit his lip and continued.  
  
“Fuck!” The half-woven basket slipped out of his hands and onto the floor. The reeds wouldn’t bend the way he wanted them to.  
  
“Keep trying,” said Henry, picking up the basket and putting it in front of Draco again. “You won’t learn how to, otherwise.”  
  
“I am trying.” Draco sighed, but pulled the basket close to him again, grasping it carefully as he again tried to bend the reeds and weave the sides. “And it’s supposed to round out?”  
  
“Yes; have faith, it will.”  
  
Draco didn’t reply, but turned the basket in his hands so as to add a new rush into the weave. He persevered, aware of the quiet in the room as he worked. He could also feel Henry’s gaze on him: tightly focused, as though Draco too were a project for Henry to master.  
  
Although Draco was used to being watched and measured against a complex list of rules, he didn’t feel like he did when his father regarded him with disapproval in his eyes. Instead he was reminded, somehow, of his Hogwarts days, and the feeling he’d had that although he was alone, someone out there was following his actions. At the time he’d assumed it was Dumbledore or Snape, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it had been the castle itself: watching, quiet and passive as he’d slowly dug himself deeper and deeper into a mire of frustration and failure.  
  
The basket slipping from his hands once more broke his reverie.  
  
“Here,” Henry said. “Let me show you that part again.” His hands moved with economy to bend the rushes, and this time Draco saw that he’d been holding the basket wrong.  
  
When he finished his first basket, Draco gave Henry a triumphant grin. “See, I can do it! I made a basket.”  
  
“You did. And now you can practise by making some more. I’ve got to see to the chickens; you stay here and see if you can get to a dozen.”  
  
A dozen? Draco stared after Henry as he walked out of the house. He stared back at the pile of rushes. He could do this. Suddenly a fun little challenge seemed much more like hard work.  
  
When Henry returned from his chickens, Draco had made one more basket, its sides a little uneven, but slightly more basket-like than his first attempt. By the time the sky had turned a soft lilac, a dozen small baskets of varying sizes sat on the table. Each finger on Draco’s hands ached from obstinate spokes and spring reeds, the separate aches amounting to a pulsing and tired ball of pain. Draco also had a scratch across the back of his left hand he didn’t remember getting, but he sat back in satisfaction nonetheless.  
  
Henry examined each basket, holding them up to the light and turning them this way and that. Finally he nodded as he put the last one down.  
  
“I think you can sell these; they have a homely charm to them. Tomorrow you can go to market and see what you can get.”  
  
*  
  
The town was tucked on the other side of the hills. Draco was relieved and uneasy to discover that it was a Muggle town: relieved that no one would recognise him, but uneasy about have to blend in with Muggles all day. Somehow that felt almost more insurmountable than having to sell his baskets.  
  
Henry had looked Draco up and down after he emerged from the tiny bathroom, hair still wet and clothes slightly damp from where he hadn’t quite been able to dry himself. Draco had taken care to choose his clothes for the day, and he hoped Henry would deem his smart pair of trousers in a heavy cotton, and simple linen shirt acceptable.  
  
“That’ll do fine for the Muggles.”  
  
“I’m not an idiot: I do know how to dress around Muggles,” Draco said. “I quite like Muggle clothes.”  
  
“Fine!” Henry held his hands up. “All you need to do now is sell your baskets.”  
  
“I can do that, too.”  
  
“Have you ever sold anything before?”  
  
“Yes. No.” How could Draco explain that he might not have sold baskets before, but he’d had to learn how to talk his way out of trouble during the war? Henry hadn’t said anything about him being a Malfoy or the war and subsequent trials. Perhaps he had bought into the story Lucius had woven for the world. Or maybe he just didn’t know the details, not the way Draco did. Living it was rather different to merely hearing about war, megalomaniac monsters and Unforgivables. Regardless, Draco held a rather dark conviction that if he’d managed to stay alive, he could manage to sell some baskets.  
  
At this time in the morning, the air was still fresh and not yet heavy with heat and the weariness of a day’s work. Henry led Draco to the town’s main square, not seeming to rush and nodding a greeting at the Muggles they passed. Draco liked the calm elegance of the town and its red-brick fronted buildings, tall and elegant with large windows, their facades punctuated by lines of white. The market itself was a collection of oddly matched stalls with awnings in red, blue and green stripes. As far as Draco could see, they were laid out in the loose curves of a double circle, rather than the rigid lines he recalled from home.  
  
“The inner pitches are permanent, but if you get here early enough it’s usually easy enough to find a space around the edge,” Henry said, pointing to a sparsely populated section to their right. “We can set up there.” A few of the stalls had been set up already, others were still laying out their wares and a few remained empty.  
  
“How do I know that someone just hasn’t got here yet?”  
  
“Oh, assume anything that looks like a stall is in use. We’re going to find a space and make a new stall, you’ll see.”  
  
When Henry found the right space – near a bin and at the edge of the market – he greeted the woman at the nearest stall.  
  
“Oh, hello there, Henry,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”  
  
“I’ve been busy.”  
  
“I can see that.” She leered at Draco, and Henry surprised him by blushing in response.  
  
“I– He’s visiting for a while. Thought he could give me a hand with selling.”  
  
“Whatever you say.” She extended her hand to Draco and smiled. “I’m Nicky.”  
  
He took her hand and shook it. “Draco.”  
  
“What an interesting name! Now, Henry here never introduces me to his… friends, so you’re going to tell me all his secrets.”  
  
“If only I knew any of them,” Draco said with a smile.  
  
“Ooh, go on. I bet you do. You staying?” She gave Henry a sly look. “Because if you’re not I’m going to dig until I get all the dirt.”  
  
“Er, no, I’m not staying. I have work to do.” Henry made a vague circular motion with his hands, as though running his hand around a pot. “I’ve been away and have orders to complete.”  
  
“But—” Draco could hear the panic in his own voice.  
  
“But nothing; you’ll be fine,” he said to Draco in quiet voice. More loudly, he added, “and Nicky’s a pussy cat, you’ve nothing to fear from her.”  
  
She snorted and went back to her stall, winking at Draco behind Henry’s back.  
  
Henry helped Draco unfold the table they’d brought with them, then left him to unpack the baskets he’d made. Henry had put a colourful cloth in the bag with clear instructions that it should cover the table, and a fabric bag filled with other bright cloths to sell. Draco busied himself with laying out his wares and displaying the fabric that Henry had given him. He stepped back, pleased with the general effect of the home-made baskets – charming, he thought they were – and the eye-catching prints of the other table cloths neatly fanned out beside them. He looked over at Nicky, who smiled approvingly.  
  
Draco took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He could do this. For a second, he saw the way his mother would offer him a fragile smile when he sat with her in the library at home. His chest tightened and he opened his eyes. The sounds of the market filled his ears and he reassured himself that however ridiculous it was that he was selling baskets his fingers still ached from making, it was better than the forced politeness of recent years.  
  
He hadn’t thought to bring a stool, and indeed many of the other stall holders stood the whole time, but Draco began to shift his weight from one foot to the other. He found it at first uncomfortable, and then slightly painful, to stand beyond the first hour.  
  
He watched as Nicky sold plentiful jars of honey and jam, while no one came to visit his stall.  
  
No Malfoy would be humiliated in this way. He hadn’t seen any wizards, so these were only Muggles; what did it matter how he behaved? He wasn’t going home empty-handed. He came to stand at the front of the stall, leaning back against the table and smiling. A short woman was buying honey from Nicky, and she turned to him and smiled. Draco smiled back, and ran a hand through his hair. He winked, too, for good measure, and she giggled. Nicky said something in a low voice to the woman, and they both laughed.  
  
“How about a new tablecloth to brighten up your day?” Draco said. “Nothing nicer than sitting at home with crumpets slathered in honey. You should have a cheerful table to match.”  
  
She handed over some money to Nicky, and came over to the stall. Draco moved behind the table, and talked her into a blue tablecloth covered in tiny pink flowers. She didn’t buy a basket, but the next person did. Draco flirted, laughed and joked his way into a steady stream of sales. No one seemed to look at the baskets for that long: they seemed more interested in talking to Draco. One person even asked him out for a coffee, but Draco said no.  
  
When things quietened down, Nicky asked him to watch her stall for a minute and returned a short while later with two cups of tea, strong and brown, in horrible plastic cups.  
  
“A pretty boy like you could make good money, here,” she said. “People like to buy from someone easy on the eye. But does Henry know what a flirt you are?”  
  
“No.” Draco grinned. “I don’t think he cares, so long as I sell these things.” His stomach grumbled in hunger, and Draco realised that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. He sipped his hot tea, hoping that it would ease his stomach a little.  
  
“You make a good-looking couple.”  
  
“We’re not a couple.” He paused, remembering the glow of the magic as it had wound around their hands as his father had bonded them together. “Well, not exactly.”  
  
“You living with him?”  
  
“I—” Draco was saved from having to answer any more questions by the sight of Henry himself walking towards the stall. Nicky followed his gaze and waved at Henry. Somehow, in the few hours that Draco had been at the market, Henry had managed to get himself even more filthy than normal. He looked as though he’d been rolling around in mud, with clothes streaked and splattered with grey.  
  
“I see you’ve been busy,” Nicky called out. “You’ll be glad to know that your boy didn’t do too bad. He’s quite a charmer when he puts his mind to it.”  
  
Draco looked at an interesting spot on the floor, torn between crowing about his successes and the desire to dismiss them as beginner’s luck. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone speaking well of him, and he didn’t dare look at Henry’s face. A condescending smile would be worse than anything else. What he wanted, Draco realised, was a genuine reaction.  
  
“You’ve done well,” Henry said, stepping around the table and closer to Draco. His eyes, when Draco met them, were filled with warmth. Something uncoiled inside Draco.  
  
“It was only my first day.”  
  
“You can come back. It will be a real help having you here on market days.”  
  
“It will?”  
  
“Ah, young love.” Nicky’s voice interrupted them. Draco was mortified to see that both he and Henry reacted in the same way: a bumbling blush. No wonder she kept assuming they were a couple.  
  
“We barely know each other,” Draco said.  
  
“He’s just helping me out,” Henry said at the same time. They looked at each other and laughed.  
  
“Whatever you say, boys,” Nicky said. “Now go home.”  
  
*  
  
“Thank you,” Draco said, “For not telling Nicky that we were, you know. Married.”  
  
“This isn’t exactly a traditional… partnership, is it?”  
  
Draco laughed at the irony of Henry’s words. “It’s the epitome of tradition in my family.” He paused. “Except for the penniless stranger part, anyway.”  
  
“I’m not penniless tonight,” Henry said. “Thanks to you.” He raised his glass to Draco again. When they’d got back to the cottage, Henry had produced a few dark brown bottles from his bag, along with the other food he’d bought with Draco’s takings.  
  
The beer had frothed as Henry had poured it into their glasses. Draco had watched, fascinated. His mother would never have countenanced such a common drink in her house. Draco knew how to choose a good bottle of wine, but he’d never had beer before.  
  
His first sip was tentative, but Draco soon returned for another. Crisp and clear, the beer was lighter than wine, but had a pleasing fullness to the taste that Draco decided he liked. Now that Draco was well into his second glass, a gentle buzz had settled about his head and he was feeling the most relaxed he had done since he arrived.  
  
“Of course, it’s all thanks to my salesman abilities. My gift of the gab.” Draco looked down into his glass “What would my mother say? Her son, reduced to being a tradesman.” He took another sip of beer, and shook his head at Henry. “Don’t laugh at me. She could be very serious about such things. According to her, people like us didn’t need professions. Merlin, it was boring.”  
  
“Well, I’ve got enough professions for both of us.”  
  
“Is ‘getting dirty’ a profession?”  
  
“It’s not ‘getting dirty’. I’ve been throwing clay all day.”  
  
“Throwing clay? You might as well have been flinging mud. Like I said, dirty. Look at your nails—” Draco grabbed Henry’s nearest hand, and pulled it closer. Henry’s hand was warm and solid in his hand, in much the same way that Henry was warm and solid, filling any room with his presence. Draco absent-mindedly ran his thumb across Henry’s palm, before turning Henry’s hand over to examine his nails. Grey grime was embedded around Henry’s nails as well as under their tips. There was even some in the creases of his hand, where the thumb joined. “See. Filthy. What do you do, dig through the clay?”  
  
Henry was staring down at his hand in Draco’s. He didn’t move it away, but rubbed his fingers against his thumb. They made a soft sound, almost lost even in the quiet of the room. “I was using white clay today. It does get everywhere, I know. You should see my studio.”  
  
“I’ve seen your clothes; that’s enough.”  
  
“No, no. I want to show you my workshop. But not tonight.” A wicked gleam lit Henry’s eyes, and he pulled his hand away to gesture outside. “As my clay offends you so much, I’m going to wash it off!”  
  
“Your bathroom’s inside.”  
  
“Don’t want clay getting into my pipes.” Henry stood up, a little unsteadily. “Only one thing for it: a dunk in the river!”  
  
The clouds were tinged with purple against a gently blushing sky as they tripped and stumbled their way to the river, following the same path through the grass as the day before. Draco peered down at the fast-moving river. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”  
  
“Nonsense. I do this all the time.” Henry shucked his t-shirt, then began to undo his trouser fastenings. A warm glow from the setting sun painted his skin gold. Draco stared, his mind hazy and drink-fuzzed, at Henry’s neat nipples, his dark chest hair, and a small scar above his heart. Henry’s arms were thick and strong, and so was the rest of him. Draco imagined resting a hand on Henry’s torso: it would radiate heat and be solid beneath his fingers. When he’d first seen Henry, singing outside his window and dressed in rags, he would never have thought that beneath it all he looked like this.  
  
The moment was broken when Henry dove into the water, a neat kick of his legs driving him away from the river bank. He emerged from the water, his dark hair slick against his head, and whooped in joy.  
  
“You should come in!”  
  
“No way.” Draco shook his head. “I remember that water. It’s bloody freezing.”  
  
“’Refreshing’ is the word you’re looking for.”  
  
Draco shook his head. “And it’s stinky, too.”  
  
“I bet you’re the one who’s all stinky and sweaty after your day at the market.”  
  
“That’s what you have a shower for. I don’t need to swim with frogs to wash off my day.”  
  
“Suit yourself.” Henry rolled onto his back, and floated with his eyes closed. Did he take his clothes off for everyone? Draco knew he probably shouldn’t be quite so interested in watching, or quite so disappointed that he’d left his underwear on. Still, he could see the bobbing outline of something else Draco would wager was warm and solid, and he couldn’t think of a more pleasant way to spend the evening. This was what had been missing from his life at the manor: half-naked men lolling about in water.  
  
The sun was touching the horizon by the time they made it back to Henry’s cottage. He’d removed his wet pants and put on the dry trousers, but sadly turned his back to do so. Draco consoled himself with the view of a rather fine bum, and swatted a midge away from his arm.  
  
*  
  
Draco’s mouth felt as though he’d eaten mud the night before. He moved his legs, enjoying the sense of freedom that came with being able to stretch them fully. What a strange dream he’d had, of a potter, beer and mud. His faced rasped with fine stubble when he rubbed it before opening his eyes, a sound and a sensation to hold onto in the confusion of his morning waking. The sight that met his eyes though, made him nearly yelp in surprise: a broad back, well-muscled and rising and falling in sleep.  
  
Dream and reality slowly distinguished themselves, and Draco eased himself out of bed. He was relieved to find that he was dressed in his pyjamas, and so was Henry. His head was still a little fuzzy, but all the facts of his new life aligned enough that Draco remembered the family curse, the bonding, and Henry. Merlin, there  _had_  been beer and mud. Draco moved the short distance to the kitchen area, and set a kettle to boil on the stove top.  
  
The night before they had talked until the stars came out, until all the beer was gone. Henry’s friends didn’t approve of his lifestyle, apparently, but Draco was growing to like it. Well, for Henry, anyway. He wasn’t so certain that it was the lifestyle for Draco Malfoy.  
  
He brought a cup of coffee, thick and black, to Henry. Draco wasn’t sure whether he should mention waking up in the bed. He was sure that nothing had happened: it had been a comfortable place to sit and talk after Draco had showered and changed, and they had fallen asleep at some point in the night.  
  
Henry woke slowly, his mouth stretching into a languorous yawn. He turned his head towards Draco, and for a fraction of a moment panic flashed across his face. Henry raised a hand to his face and scrubbed at it, and when his hand fell away he smiled as though reassured.  
  
“Good morning. I think I could get used to married life if it means you bring me coffee in the morning.”  
  
Draco scowled. “I’m not your wife, nor your house-elf.”  
  
“Whatever you are, thank you.” Henry took the cup and set it on the bedside table. “I’m not used to waking up to find someone else here.”  
  
Perhaps that explained Henry’s fleeting moment of alarm.  
  
“I hadn’t really thought about how all this might be disrupting your life as well as mine.”  
  
Henry shrugged. “There wasn’t that much to disrupt, to be honest.” He sat up a little straighter and drank some of his coffee. “It’s market day again today. As you did so well yesterday, I think you should go again.”  
  
Draco looked over at the window. Even with thick white clouds in the sky, he could see that it was bright enough to be fairly late in the morning.  
  
Henry saw him looking, and nodded. “Normally you’d be right, but Tuesday’s market is held in the afternoon. There’s still time to set up.”  
  
“Yes, but there’s not enough time to weave some more baskets,” said Draco. Some part of him, a little voice in the back of his head, told him how absurd it was that he was talking about weaving baskets in such serious tones. Before breakfast, too. He ignored it. “Can’t we do it tomorrow, instead? Weave today, sell tomorrow?”  
  
“No. The market isn’t every day, and we’d have to wait until the weekend to sell anything else. I’ve got some pots you can sell. If you think you’re up to it.”  
  
Draco puffed up. “Of course I am. Didn’t I manage with all my little baskets yesterday? Your pots are lovely, I’m sure they’ll sell well.”  
  
“You think my pots are lovely?”  
  
A dark blush heated Draco’s cheeks. He held up his coffee cup. “They’re not what I’m used to, but they have a certain charm, yes.”  
  
Henry sat back and smiled.  
  
*  
  
Henry and Draco stowed their brooms in a small copse of trees and walked into town. Henry carefully dragged a large suitcase behind him, and Draco was tasked with carrying the large and awkward folding table. Henry had made it look easy the day before, as though it weighed nothing. By the time they got to the market square though, Draco’s shins were bruised and his hands red and sore.  
  
“Stupid Muggles. I don’t see why we couldn’t have shrunk this stuff and got it out in an alleyway or something.”  
  
“If you think this is hard work, then you’ve really lived a sheltered life.”  
  
Draco thought of his four poster bed, with silk hangings, and a house-elf waiting by the side of his bed with a cup of tea each morning. And then he thought of hiding in his room during the war. “Not entirely sheltered, I’d say.” He saw Henry glance down at Draco’s left arm: the one with the Dark Mark, and he saw with absolute clarity, that Henry  _knew_. Of course he did. Just because he lived like a hermit in a little cottage didn’t mean he wasn’t aware of who the Malfoy family were. Of Death Eaters or Vold— Everyone read the papers.  
  
“Don’t look so serious! You’re going to sell all my pots and we’re going to drink more beer. It’ll be fine.”  
  
Draco didn’t look up, but nodded.  
  
The spot next to Nicky was free again, although this time it wasn’t Nicky but a burly moustachioed man called John who barely spoke to either Henry or Draco. He had an impressive array of cheeses for sale, and seemed too serious to engage in small talk. Henry left Draco to set up again, and once he’d got the table open and covered with the cloth it was time to see what Henry had given him to sell.  
  
He opened the suitcase carefully. It was packed with well-wrapped pieces. One by one, Draco took them out. There was a tall teapot with squared sides; a stack of white-glazed bowls; and then three or four plates in browns and reds, marks like flames on their sides. A selection of mugs, their weight familiar in Draco’s hands, finished the selection. He laid them out as best he could, and stowed the suitcase and layers of paper beneath the table.  
  
Henry had also given him a box with Muggle money and a price list in it, with clear instructions of what to do if someone wanted to haggle. Draco felt as ready as he could be, and fixed his most engaging smile on his face.  
  
Expensive pots, it turned out, were a little trickier to sell than cheap and woven baskets. People would wander over to his stall, and pick up a plate or a bowl, only to falter when Draco told them the price. His understanding of Muggle money was shaky – although Henry had told him that if he could count his fingers and toes, he should be able to manage pounds and pence – but he had a fair idea of what everything was worth in Galleons and Sickles. He knew he would have spent more on something he liked if he were out shopping.  
  
And then Draco thought of the breakfast of coffee, eggs and bread they had eaten that morning, and how limited Henry’s repertoire of food appeared to be. Maybe some people just didn’t have the money, even if they thought the plates beautiful. Draco had always assumed that his family were superior to people like the Weasleys because they were more discerning: that poverty, somehow, was synonymous with bad taste and a lack of aesthetic sensibilities.  
  
Draco staggered slightly at the realisation that when he thought about ‘poverty’, that now included himself. He was poor.  
  
He redoubled his efforts with the sales. He had sold a plate, two matching bowls and a mug when he heard a crash from the other end of the market. A series of shouts and crashes followed, until a drunken man in a football shirt stepped around the corner. He had a beatific smile on his face, and a can of drink in his hand. A pile of hats fell to the floor as he veered into a stall.  
  
“S’rry,” he hiccoughed. Draco put his hands out to steady his own stall; he didn’t want anything to get broken. He watched, in horrified fascination, as the man continued to walk in an unsteady line towards Draco. When he got close, Draco could smell the alcohol, sour and acrid, on him. “I need a piss,” the man said, his hand going to his trousers.  
  
“Not here!” Draco called out in alarm. He moved in front of the table, and steered the man in the direction of the public toilets at the edge of the square. Thank Merlin they were there, although to be honest at the moment he didn’t care if the man pissed against a wall somewhere; just as long as it wasn’t on Henry’s pottery.  
  
The alcohol fumes lingered in the air after the man had staggered off.  
  
“Fucking drunks,” John said.  
  
Draco mumbled an answer, and leant back on the table for a second, his heart pounding. He hated the kind of confrontation where he knew the other person wouldn’t listen. He laughed darkly to himself at the idea that he was comparing some Muggle drunk to his father, then took a steadying breath to walk back to his post behind the table.  
  
As he moved around, his foot caught on the table leg, and Draco looked down in time to watch the table shift. Everything slowed down as the table leg folded in, but Draco couldn’t move fast enough to stop Henry’s pots slide off, one by one. Each one made a loud bang as it smashed on the floor, Draco’s hand only managing to grasp the lip of a plate, but too late to do more than deflect its fall as it slipped from his fingers.  
  
Brown, green, orange, blue and red: shards of pottery covered the ground. Draco knelt, unsure of what to do next. A moment before he’d felt certain that he’d saved the day, and now everything was broken. Gone.  
  
John the cheese man hurried over. “Oh, that’s a real pity. Still, we can’t leave it lying around like this.” Before Draco really knew what was happening, the shards were being swept up and binned, and someone had thrust a polystyrene cup of hot, sweet tea into his hands. He stared at it. The weight was all wrong, and he couldn’t feel the burning tingle of the tea through the sides like he could with one of Henry’s cups.  
  
Draco wasn’t sure whether he could remember the way back to cottage, so he sat and waited for Henry. When Henry arrived and saw the empty table, he smiled. His smile fell however, once he caught sight of Draco’s face.  
  
“What’s wrong?”  
  
“He broke all your pots,” John helpfully supplied.  
  
“All?” Henry looked lost. “Broke?”  
  
“I sold three. And then I tripped over the table and they all slid…” He looked down at the ground.  
  
“And where are they now?”  
  
“Er, in the—” Draco cleared his throat. “In the bin.”  
  
Henry raised an eyebrow. “The bin?”  
  
“They weren’t any use to you,” John said from his stall. “Poor Jake here was pretty shaken up.”  
  
“Jake?” Henry whispered as they quickly packed up the table. “And why on earth did they end up in the bin?  
  
“He couldn’t get my name right. And they were broken.”  
  
Henry whisked Draco into a dark corner behind some large bins – Draco didn’t have the heart to tell him that they were probably the same ones that were now filled with pottery shards – and grasped Draco’s elbow tightly. The world spun and went black as they Disapparated, reappearing near their hidden brooms.  
  
“I thought we couldn’t do that!” Draco said.  
  
“I wasn’t in the mood for niceties,” said Henry. “And I didn’t want to shout at you in front of the whole market.”  
  
“I’m sorry,” Draco said. “I tried to stop them falling, but I couldn’t reach them in time—”  
  
“And then you threw them all away. Yes; I’m sure you’re very sorry.” Henry took a deep breath. “But did it not occur to you that if you had saved the pieces we could have cast a Mending charm? Maybe not in the middle of the market, but if you’d scooped them up into the suitcase?”  
  
“I– I didn’t think of that. Someone else tidied most of them up. I–” he faltered. “I had a cup of tea.”  
  
 _“A cup of tea?”_  
  
“I was in shock!”  
  
“You, Draco Malfoy, are a prime idiot sometimes.” Henry grabbed their brooms, and shoved Draco’s at him. “Let’s go home.” Draco took his broom, his head bowed.  
  
*  
  
Dinner bore more than a passing resemblance to breakfast, food-wise, except that they barely spoke over their eggs. When Draco washed up – trying to remember exactly how Henry had told him to do it – Henry went to stand outside, staring out at the darkening sky.  
  
“I know you didn’t mean to break the pots,” Henry said softly when he came back in. “And I can’t expect you think of things like Mending charms.”  
  
“I am sorry.” Draco passed Henry the cup of tea he’d made for him. “A peace offering?”  
  
Henry took it and smiled. “Thank you.” They sat at the little table, neither speaking as they drank their tea.  
  
“I’ve learned my lesson for next time.” Draco could almost feel his foot entering his mouth. “Not that there’d be a next time, “ he added quickly. “I’ll be more careful.”  
  
“There won’t be a next time.” Henry shook head.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Well, for one thing, I don’t have any more pots I can risk you selling.” Henry gave Draco an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t afford to lose anything else. Anyway, the market is only on three days a week, and given that you sold three things today I don’t think we’ll be able to make ends meet.”  
  
“What are we going to do, then?” The thought that Draco would have to return, crawling, to his father made his stomach heavy and cold as a stone. He had resented being married off, but he also hated how trapped he was by his parents. Lucius would just try to marry him off again, anyway. And for all the Henry was poor and lived like a hermit, he was bearable to be around.  
  
Henry took a breath and let it out again before responding. His mouth twisted a little as he said, “I think that you’re going to have to get a job.”  
  
“A job?” Draco’s voice rose in a most unmanly way.  
  
“Yes.” Henry’s mouth wobbled into an amused smile. “That is how most people get by.”  
  
“You don’t have a job.”  
  
“Of course I do! I’m a potter. And a singer, and a business man—”  
  
Draco snorted. “You’re not doing that well for someone with three jobs.”  
  
“That’s what my friends say. Especially Her—” Henry paled. “Er, especially the more opinionated amongst them. ‘Get a real job,’ they say. ‘Join the Aurors.’ I say that I’d rather have some work-life balance. Plus I love making my pots.”  
  
“The Aurors?”  
  
“Oh, I had childhood dreams about saving the world. I’d rather live a quiet life now.”  
  
“In poverty.”  
  
Henry shrugged. “I was doing fine until you came along. That’s not to say that it’s awful having you here, it’s just that for us to be able to stay here, like this, you’re going to need to get a job.”  
  
“If I can’t sell your pots – or mine – what can I do? I don’t have any training in anything. “  
  
“I bet you’ve got great OWLs and NEWTS.”  
  
“Of course.” And they had taken a great deal of work to earn, too. Draco had never envisaged actually doing anything with them, though, and when he imagined getting some job in London, or in a wizarding town, all the could see was that everyone would look at his arm for the Dark Mark, or expect him to act like a proper Malfoy. Whatever that meant. “I don’t want to work with wizards, though. I want to work with Muggles.”  
  
“You do?” Henry raised his eyebrows. “In that case…” He rose, and took some parchment, a quill and some ink from one of the kitchen drawers. He leant against the kitchen counter and scribbled a quick note. Draco hadn’t seen an owl yet, so he wasn’t entirely surprised when Henry knelt by the fireplace and threw some Floo powder in. After a hurried conversation with a stressed-looking man, Henry handed over the note and returned to Draco.  
  
“He said he’d let me know if anything was available – behind the scenes.”  
  
“You’re suggesting I work in a theatre?”  
  
“What? No!” Henry chuckled. “At Minplebury Hall. They’re the biggest employer around here and most likely to be hiring.”  
  
“Do I get a say in this?”  
  
“Do you want to be able to eat? More than eggs twice a day with bread?  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
They looked at each other and laughed. Draco had no idea what he’d agreed to, but he felt relieved that he and Henry were talking again. He liked it when Henry smiled, and looked at him as though even a potter in the woods could see something they liked in a Malfoy.  
  
“And if you want to kip on the bed again, I don’t mind. You don’t snore, and I bet that sofa is really uncomfortable.”  
  
“Thanks,” Draco said. At least that answered the question about whether Henry had noticed Draco beside him the night before.  
  
When he climbed into the bed that night, no beer or late night to disguise the fact that we was getting into bed with Henry, it felt oddly comforting. Like sharing a room back at Hogwarts. Except warmer.  
  
Draco fell asleep with smile on his face.  
  
*  
  
The next day – after another breakfast of eggs, but this time soft-boiled with well-buttered soldiers – Henry took Draco to see his workshop. It was set back at the edge of the wood, a little further down from the house. A covered but open section next to it housed two home-made kilns, and Draco could see where Henry got his impressive shoulders from: stacks of firewood were piled up ready to burn in the kilns.  
  
Draco had been expecting a chaotic space, but the workshop was neatly ordered and arranged. Large bins and shelves lined the walls, with a set of worktables and a turning table at the centre of the room. One wall held unfired bowls and pots, while the one to the right of the door held finished works. Clay, pale and dry, was splattered all over the room. No wonder he came home filthy after a day in here. As Henry talked through each section of the room, Draco began to see the flow: clay in one end, pots ready to be fired out the other. It reminded him a little of a well-run Potions lab. Draco wondered where Henry had gone to school: he didn’t recognise him from Hogwarts. There were other schools and some were educated at home, of course. Apart from the fact that Henry’s parents were dead and that he had a friend who disapproved of his life, Draco didn’t know much about Henry. But then he hadn’t exactly been forthcoming about his own past.  
  
They finished their tour of the workshop, and stood by the shelves of fired pots.  
  
“Each one is different.” Henry picked up one of the bowls. “See, the ash of the fire helps to make the texture and patterns of these bowls. They are formed from the earth and finished with fire and air, wood and ash.”  
  
The bowls were heavy, the earthenware thick. Draco knew from experience how reassuring the heft of weight was, in his hands and on his lip. At home – his home with his parents, that was – they drank from translucent bone china, as delicate and fragile as the veneer of family respectability was thin. Henry’s bowls seemed so… honest. They would never fit in at Malfoy Manor.  
  
“I’m going to fire the kiln up in the next few weeks. I’ve got a whole load of pots to prepare and then it will take me two days of constant fire-stoking to keep the kiln hot enough. Usually during this time I can’t get to market and have to get by on what I can. Having you here will make a big difference.”  
  
Draco was half listening. The vase in his hands looked as though it bore the imprint of flames, and Draco’s hands shook a little as he set it carefully back on the shelf. “You can see the fire,” he said.  
  
“They are covered in flames, like a river of fire, when they’re in the kiln.”  
  
“Like Fiendfyre,” said Draco, his mind seeing a dragon of flame rising to claim him.  
  
Henry rested his hands against the shelves, and took a deep breath before turning to Draco. “Yes, a little,” he said softly. His eyes were such a brilliant blue, and Draco thought for a moment of another set of eyes, green and just as earnest. He backed away.  
  
“I’ll help, if I can. But… I don’t like fire.”  
  
“No.” Henry smiled. “I understand. You getting a job to put food on the table will be help enough.”  
  
Maybe this was why people got jobs. Not to eat, necessarily – although Draco wasn’t stupid, and knew that this was a big reason for many – but for this glow of pride. This feeling that,  _yes_ , he could provide. That someone else would need him in this way. The thoughts and feelings were confusing and new, so instead Draco focused on the small tasks Henry had given him in the house. He’d never swept before, but found it to be therapeutic to move the brush, over and over again, and make the place clean.  
  
He was going to have a job, and he was going to work. And it would all be fine.  
  
*   
  
Draco had been in many grand houses in his time, but he’d never seen this side to one. The general manager – a small man with an impressive moustache – met him in his office, a room in what had once been the house’s stables.  
  
“I know who you are, Mr Draco,” he said by way of introduction. “Mr Singer was very clear that you are here on his personal recommendation, otherwise it is unlikely that we’d be having this conversation.” He gave Draco an oily smile. “I feel that before I give you a tour of the hotel, I should make a few things clear.” Draco began to regret having breakfast as his nerves about the day became a whole host of riotous butterflies in his gut. This was why he hid in the Manor: because it didn’t matter how wealthy his family, more people hated than admired them. Stupid Henry and his insistence that Draco get a job.  
  
Realising that some response was called for, Draco nodded.  
  
“It is important that you understand that magic is not normally permitted in the hotel. We have anti-Apparition wards and do not wish to break the Statute. We may cater to wizarding guests, but we run as a Muggle hotel.”  
  
The manger took him on a tour of the hotel. Whereas the main rooms of Minplebury Hall were decorated in a familiar rococo style, all ornate carvings and damask silks, the old servant quarters were plain and functional. A long passage ran the length of the block, branching off for the old dining hall and the ballroom. Seeing Muggles breakfast in the dining room brought a twinge of longing to Draco. The breakfast itself was pedestrian compared to the variety on offer at home, but after a week or so of Henry’s sparse diet, it looked like a feast. How he longed to be sitting at a linen-draped table, being waited on hand and foot. Instead, Draco was led away and shown to the ballroom with its mirrors and chandeliers, and then onto the linen room, and finally onto the kitchens. Large steel tables ran down its centre, with the whole room bright with light and shiny steel, and filled with purposeful people.  
  
Draco took a deep breath, trying to ease the panic rising in his chest. Perhaps a job here wouldn’t be too bad. Draco could learn to chop and peel; he’d always been precise in Potions, and was confident in his skills with a knife. He watched a tall man talk sternly to some underling: surely such a man would recognise Draco’s inherent talent. Laid-back Henry might be blind to it, but this chef was obviously in command of his kitchen and would be glad to have someone like Draco working for him.  
  
Just as Draco was imagining wearing a tall white hat, and wondering whether it would mess up his hair terribly, the general manager tugged him towards a side door.  
  
“Just one room left,” he said. He pushed the swing door open, and the first impression Draco had was of steam: a billowing cloud of it that enveloped them both. His second was of a crashing series of noises that set his teeth on edge. The manager pulled an apron off a peg, and handed it to Draco. “This is where you’ll be working.”  
  
Draco stared at the apron. “I don’t…” The butterflies of unease turned lead in his stomach.  
  
“You’ll be washing dishes, Mr Malfoy,” he was informed. “Mr Singer requested that you had a non-public facing job, and this was the only vacancy for someone of your… qualifications.”  
  
Reluctantly, Draco took the apron and tied it on. The manager nodded and gave him one last supercilious look – which would have been comic on someone so much shorter than him if not for the fact that Draco was beneath him in all other ways – then walked out.  
  
“He’s a right wanker,” a cheerful voice said from one of the sinks. A tall woman with black hair, cropped as short as any man’s, stepped away from the steam and extended a wet hand to Draco. He hesitated before taking it.  
  
“No point drying off, “ another woman said. Draco tried not to stare at just how red her face was, red and round.  
  
“I’m Draco,” he said, taking the first woman’s hand and shaking it.  
  
“Kate,” she said. “And this is Amy.”  
  
“Welcome to the shittest job, ever,” said Amy.  
  
“Er… thanks?”  
  
“Poor lamb,” Amy said. The women looked at each other and laughed. “Let’s see how long you last, pretty boy.”  
  
Kate took Draco to one of the sinks, just as a man brought through a trolley piled high with dirty plates.  
  
“It’s not complicated: your job is to rinse the worse off these, and stack the machine. Then unload it when it’s done.”  
  
Draco stood at the sink while Kate and Amy when back to their clattering and splashing. He blinked the tight, hot feeling away from eyes, then rolled up his sleeves. He took a deep breath, and picked up the first plate.  
  
*  
  
“So how was your first day at work?” Henry asked when Draco got in.  
  
“I don’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“I was going to head off to the river for a dip,” said Henry. He was, as normal, smeared in clay.  
  
“I’ve had enough of water to last me a lifetime,” said Draco. “You go; I need to sleep.”  
  
Draco had barely enough energy to change out of his clothes and brush his teeth before he fell into bed, exhausted. For the first time he had no compunction about sleeping in Henry’s bed. Draco closed his eyes, his hands still burning from the hot water and his legs and back aching from standing all day. Within moments he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.  
  
*  
  
A gentle breeze stirred the trees, and to Draco it sounded like they were singing. He sat back in the deck chair, letting the peace of the wood and the warmth of the sun ease his tired limbs. Somehow – and Draco wasn’t quite sure how – he’d survived his first week of work. When Amy had dubbed it ‘the shittest job, ever’ she had not been joking. From snatches of gossip from other staff at the hotel, it soon became clear that the dishwashing job was the most looked down on and pitied of all.  
  
Draco rubbed his fingers across his palm, the skin rasping and catching it was so dry and cracked. He had always prided himself on having good hands: clean nails, well-trimmed, and soft hands. He opened his eyes and looked at the rough red, blistered in places. Henry was off at market, and Draco was free to do as he wanted. Well, free apart from the fact that he had no money and couldn’t return to Malfoy Manor.  
  
Closing his eyes once more, he focused on the sounds around him. Singing trees, and buzzing bees. The trees were fuller than they had been when he arrived, and the meadow was bright with colour. Henry had a well-stocked herb garden, and Draco ran his fingers over his palm once more. Perhaps…  
  
He sat up, his attention sharp as he look around him. Sage, comfrey… he could do something with them.  
  
When Henry returned from the market, his nose a little sunburned and fresh food supplies in his bag, Draco had filled the cottage with a steamy cloud.  
  
“What a you doing?”  
  
“I can’t live like this a moment longer,” Draco said. “My hands are like sandpaper.” He turned back to the pot he was stirring over the stove.”  
  
“It smells like Sn— like a potions lab,” said Henry.  
  
“Potions was one of my strengths at school,” said Draco. “I decided to make some hand cream.”  
  
“Hand cream?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
Henry looked as though we were about to laugh, but instead he nodded. “Fair enough. Your hands have looked rather sore this week.”  
  
Draco snorted. “That’s a bit of an understatement. Anyway, don’t worry, I’ve almost finished.” He decanted the oozing contents of the pan into a clean jar, and screwed the lid tight.  
  
“I was always pants at Potions at school,” said Henry.  
  
“Were you? I loved it.”  
  
“There was one year I had a good teacher, or rather a good text book… but it was never really my favourite subject.”  
  
“I haven’t made anything since I left school. But it was all so clear: I could remember everything.” Draco’s arms felt tight from stirring, but they didn’t ache as they did after a day of washing up. He smiled at Henry. “It felt good.”  
  
Henry smiled back. “It’s good to see you happy. And wait until you see what I brought back from town with the extra money you brought in this week.”  
  
He unpacked a range of fruit and vegetables and a local cheese, wrapped in paper. When he got to the bottles of beer at the bottom of his bag, Draco decided that a day off was a good thing indeed.  
  
*  
  
The bright light of morning woke Draco, and he came to with the luxurious ease of one who has nowhere to be. Every day had been like this before he met Henry, but he’d never really appreciated it until he’d had the displeasure of working at the most shitty of jobs. But today there would be no plates, no soap, and no hot water. As he stretched out into an empty bed, disappointment marred his waking. Secretly, he liked it when he woke to find Henry still asleep beside him, warm legs pressed up against his.  
  
“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Henry appeared at the end of the bed with a small tray bearing fresh tea and some of the pastries Draco had brought home the day before. “I thought I’d let you sleep a little longer.”  
  
Draco had resisted taking anything for the first week or so, but then he’d decided that the pay wasn’t recompense enough for this stinking job. And he’d seen Amy sneak a bread roll or a piece of cake. Why not him, too? As an added bonus, Henry had the worst sweet tooth Draco had seen since he’d had to endure watching Harry Potter stuff treacle tart into his face at school. Henry’s eyes would light up when Draco brought home sweet things, and it was rather endearing.  
  
“Thanks.” Draco took his tea and placed it beside the bed. He smiled up at Henry, who sat beside him and carefully set the tray of pastries down in the space between.  
  
“We can always Vanish the crumbs.”  
  
Draco nodded. “As it’s not my turn to sort the bed out, I’ve got no complaints.”  
  
Henry picked up one of Draco’s hands and ran his clay-marked finger along it. “Your poor hands.”  
  
Draco’s heart started thudding alarmingly in his chest, and he held his breath in the hope that it would pass. Henry’s hand was warm and his touch soft, and Draco wondered what it would be like if Henry were to touch more than just his chapped hand— Draco pulled his hand away, and reached for the pot of hand cream he now kept by the bed.  
  
“You do know that I hate that job, right?”  
  
“I know.” Henry sighed. “And I am grateful to you for helping like this. I tell you what,” he said, “why don’t we head over to my studio today, and I can teach you how to make some little pots for your creams? If you make enough, we could try selling them at the market.”  
  
“Really?” Draco was surprised. He hadn’t thought that Henry was that interested in his mini-potions experimenting, nor in returning together to market. ‘We’… His heart swelled at the thought that Henry included him in this way. The only ‘we’ he’d heard from his parents tended to be followed by the words ‘ought’ or ‘always’. They’d always left him feeling that he belonged, yes, but in a stifling way. With Henry he felt that possibilities were opening, not closing.  
  
*  
  
“First, you have to get your clay onto the wheel.” Henry was sitting at his wheel, which was powered with a spell that responded to his foot movements on a pedal. “Like this.” He threw the clay onto the wheel.  
  
Draco moved his chair back a little. He could see the clay splatters around the wheel – on the floor, and even on the ceiling – and although he had no idea what happened next, he had a fair idea that it would involve mess. This was, after all, Henry at work. Draco had seen him cook: he’d cover the kitchen in unwashed pans and vegetable peelings. Draco would be forced to fuss around after him, otherwise it would reach unbearable levels of chaos.  
  
“Next, you have to make sure the clay is centred, like this.” Henry moved the clay, nudging it until spun evenly at the centre of the turning wheel.  
  
Perhaps Draco should be taking notes. The lump of clay looked nothing like any of the earthenware Draco was familiar with from the cottage.  
  
“Then,” Henry dipped his hands into the container of water beside him, “wet your hands and begin to shape the clay.”  
  
Although Draco knew that the only magic at hand was that turning the wheel, he was still transfixed by the sight of Henry’s finger pushing down into the centre of the clay. He looked so certain in his movements; so practised, so sure. Draco could imagine Henry’s finger probing—  
  
“This is the beginning of the pot. Now, the trick is to ease it out. A little force may be necessary; you have to be confident.” One hand pushed into the hole, making it grow bigger until it gaped almost obscenely, while the other braced the outside of the newly-forming pot. Draco swallowed. His neck was hot, and he was sure his ears were burning.  
  
Henry’s hands continued to move, strong and sure. The shape of the pot was fluid, shifting and curving in and out with each pass of Henry’s hands. Draco could see, now, why Henry always had clay around his nails: he moved with the clay, and the clay moved with him. When his hands moved to the base of the clay, pressing with a gentle and persistent certainty, the pot changed again. Henry seemed to caress the pot, his hands moving around its side. It began to open up on wheel, sides widening and thinning in a fluttering flow under Henry’s fingers.  
  
“It suits you,” Draco said. “Working with clay like this.”  
  
Henry glanced up quickly. When he spoke, he was focused on the wheel again. “Thank you. I like it. I feel… peaceful when I’m doing this.”  
  
“You look so… confident.”  
  
“I’ve been doing this for years now.” Henry worked the sides in at the top, until the bowl had become a neat pot, curved wide in the middle but coming back in at the top. “It was such a relief to find a job I loved. I thought I’d be floating from one to another for the rest of my life.”  
  
The wheel began to slow down, then stopped. Henry cut the pot off neatly with a wire, and set it on the table beside him, then turned to Draco. Light danced in Henry’s eyes as he smiled.  
  
Draco smiled back, happy to bask in the warmth of Henry’s pleasure.  
  
Henry held his gaze, then cleared his throat and returned to the pot. He used a small tool to make a pattern in the clay, biting down on his top lip slightly as he focused. His hair was streaked with clay where he must have wiped it away, and it was damp and clumpy with sweat. Henry was, Draco realised, one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen.  
  
“I hope you were paying attention,” Henry said, when he’d finished. Draco certainly had been paying attention: to the flex of muscle beneath Henry’s t-shirt, and the mark on his lip where he’d bitten down. “Because it’s your turn now.”  
  
“What?” Draco swam back up from his cataloguing of all the pleasant sights of Henry. “I’m not getting my hands stuck in that.”  
  
“I bet any clay left will wash off within five minutes of sticking your hands in those giant sinks at work.”  
  
Draco opened his mouth then closed it again. Half the time he worried that his  _skin_  wouldn’t last the day at work; clay wouldn’t stand a chance. “I’m not really a ‘hands on’ type of person,” he said after a quick moment of consideration.  
  
“Nonsense. I’ve seen you when you make your hand cream. You’ve got a good instincts and you’re careful in your movements.” Henry got up and gestured for Draco to take his place by the wheel.  
  
“Fine. But only because you said something nice about me.”  
  
“Flattery works well with you, then? I’ll remember that,” said Henry. He grinned. “Who’d have thought that Mr Rich and Mighty could be cajoled into a little work by means of flattery.”  
  
“And hunger,” Draco added, but his grumble was wrapped in a smile. Tentatively he touched the still-wet wheel. “I never thought I’d work. There never really seemed any need.”  
  
“Money isn’t everything,” Henry said quietly. “I’d still live like this even if I were the richest wizard in Britain.”  
  
“Right.” Draco snorted. Then he looked at Henry, and his hair sticking up and clay everywhere. “Actually, you probably would. So bloody earnest.” He shook his head. “But enough talking! Show me what to do.”  
  
Rather than being hot – Draco always thought of Henry as hot: a hot leg pressed against his at night – Henry’s fingers were cool to the touch as they guided his own around the clay. Henry sat close enough that Draco could smell him, all earthy sweat and clay. When Henry spoke, Draco felt a brush of air on his neck. He shivered.  
  
“Sorry; I know the water’s cold,” Henry said. Draco nodded dumbly. The water. Cold.  
  
Draco’s first attempt flew off the wheel; his second collapsed in on itself. By the time he was on his third attempt, Draco had stopped worrying about whether Henry’s hands were hot or cold. He just wanted to get the pot done.  
  
“Did you know that when you concentrate you stick your tongue out?” Henry said, making Draco inhale deeply in an effort to keep calm enough not to ruin his pot. Henry did insist on talking the whole time: Draco suspected that for all Henry lived a solitary life, he actually preferred company. Even without looking up, Draco could hear the grin in Henry’s voice when he asked his next question.  
  
“Have you always done it? You look about five when you do it.”  
  
“Don’t distract me,” Draco said. “Besides, you bite your lip when you’re concentrating.”  
  
“You’ve never seen me working before.”  
  
“I’ve seen you cooking. That’s enough.” Draco smiled to himself: he quite liked how Henry bit down, denting his lip and half-frowning as he concentrated.  
  
Henry stayed silent while Draco worked a little more on his pot, until Draco stopped the wheel.. His pot was a little wobbly maybe, but Draco decided that he was willing to accept a wobble if it didn’t collapse.  
  
“The more you practise, the better you’ll get,” said Henry as he passed a wire under the pot to remove it from the wheel. “It took me more than three goes to get a pot that looked like that.”  
  
“Really?” Draco could hear how hopeful he sounded. Eager for praise.  
  
Henry smiled. “You did fine.”  
  
“I don’t want to be ‘fine’. I want to be ‘good’, or ‘better’. Or ‘best’.”  
  
“And there’s another reason to work. To know that you’re good at something,” Henry said. “Like you are, at making those creams.”  
  
Draco looked back down at his little pot. He couldn’t help but smile at having made something of his own, however imperfect. “It’s different, making something with your hands. It feels… good.”  
  
“Even if it isn’t perfect.”  
  
Draco nodded.  
  
When they walked back to the cottage, Draco’s steps matched Henry’s: relaxed and unhurried. For that moment at least he moved to Henry’s rhythm, at ease with the world.  
  
*  
  
Draco scrubbed at the pan as violently as he could. The cooked-on sauce didn’t budge. What did they do these pans, anyway?  
  
Whatever he’d thought having a job would be like, it wasn’t this. When he’d bothered to think about other people and their jobs, he’d never imagined anything as menial as washing dishes: that’s what house-elves were for. He’d had some vague ideas of being a Potions Master and swishing his robes like Severus, of stirring a giant cauldron and shouting out orders to others. If he’d thought of any kind of cleaning, it would have been the detailed and thorough preparation of stirring rods and crucibles, not scraping congealed food off dishes.  
  
There was nothing therapeutic about washing dishes on this scale. The plates were never ending, and great clouds of steam threatened to scald him if he had the job of loading and unloading the industrial dishwasher. The water was always scalding hot. And the pans! Everything was baked on and his arms ached at the end of each day. The skin on his hands was dry and cracking from spending so much time in water. His hand creams helped a little, and he had curried much favour by gifting Amy and Kate with their own jars, but in the face of so much washing up it was essentially a losing battle. If only they had a few house-elves, none of this would be necessary. But no, they didn’t.  
  
Draco gave the brown stain another vicious scrub. Stupid fuzzy-haired Granger and her stupid house-elf legislation. And stupid Muggles eating off plates and needing pans for cooking. One more scrub and the stain had halved in size. Aha! Triumph was but a few short scrubs away.  
  
Sometimes Draco liked to imagine that a particularly stubborn baked-on section was someone or something that had pissed him off. To be frank, working in this kitchen it could be anyone, or anything. He scrubbed harder, and was rewarded with a clean and shiny pan. Until he turned it, and saw a corresponding brown patch on the other side.  
  
For all that Henry made work to be some noble cause, which it may have been for him with his pottery, Draco could find no redeeming factors in his job. Never in his life – not even when snivelling whilst trying to fix that bloody cabinet – had Draco imagined that this would be how he ended his days: washing dishes for hours on end, like a house-elf. A house-elf!  
  
When he’d finally finished with the huge pan, Draco stretched his arms above his head before turning to pull the next heavily encrusted pan into the water. He gritted his teeth: surely this was some form of torture, a punishment for every moment of wrongdoing in his life. He laughed to himself as he imagined that this pan was his punishment not for being a Death Eater, but for stealing an apple from the kitchens at home that one time. He wiped his hair out of his eyes, ignoring the slight sting of the soap – it mingled with the sweat currently plastering his hair to his head anyway.  
  
At the end of what had felt like another endless shift, Draco stepped away from the sink and fumbled with the ties on his apron. Gustav, the fearsome Hungarian who ran the kitchens, was nowhere to be seen. Draco patted his pockets to make sure nothing had spilled, then made his way out of the kitchens. Perhaps when he’d run through all his old misdemeanours he’d have to pay for the food he took every night. But the food that wasn’t eaten got thrown away, and it was such a waste.  
  
*  
  
Back at home, bone-tired and skin still tingling from the sweating and the steam, Draco deposited the contents of his pockets on the tables. Thank goodness for preservation and protection charms, as he didn’t think he could have managed to bring home a selection of cream cakes otherwise. Henry was nowhere to be seen, but had left a pot of stew on the stove, and a plate out for Draco. Coming home to a freshly cooked meal was now one of Draco’s greatest pleasures in life, and completely worth waking Henry every morning with a cup of coffee.  
  
Once Draco’s plate was scraped clean – and hurriedly washed up, with Draco trying not to flinch at the thought of just one more – he picked up two beers and wandered down to the workshop. Henry wasn’t there, so he went to the river. Henry was sitting on the river bank, his trousers rolled up and his feet dangling in the water.  
  
“You should join me,” he said. “The water’s lovely.”  
  
Draco didn’t need telling twice. His feet ached after standing for hours, and the insistent heat didn’t help, either. The water was shockingly cool against his skin, and he wiggled his toes in pleasure.  
  
“How was work?”  
  
“The same as ever. Boring, hard. Sweaty.”  
  
“I quite like you sweaty.”  
  
“No one could like me sweaty.”  
  
“I don’t know.” Henry turned to him, those blue eyes of his sparkling away. “You get all hot and flustered. It makes a change from your usual polished appearance. It makes you more… real.”  
  
“I’m always real, you pillock. I’d rather be real but not stinky, thank you very much.”  
  
Henry wrinkled his nose. “You do pong a bit, now you come to mention it.”  
  
“Like you’re any better.”  
  
Henry grinned. How dare a man look so charming with dark stubble and clay in his hair like that? Draco swallowed, and turned back to the river. His days might be grim, but these evenings with Henry…  
  
“How about you? Did you make that teapot you were talking about?”  
  
“Yep. And I think I’m ready to fire up the kiln again in the next few days. But more important matters first: what did you bring back today?”  
  
Now it was Draco’s turn to grin. He knew what a sweet tooth Henry had. “Cream cakes.”  
  
“Really?” Henry’s eyes widened, and his tongue peeked out, as though he were about to lick his lips. Draco decided it was time to cool off, and put his beer aside before stripping off his shirt and trousers.  
  
“Last one in is a stinky egg!”  
  
Henry laughed and stripped, too. The coy shyness over underwear seemed long ago: it was easier to strip entirely. He was sure that Henry assumed that they were used to each other’s company enough not to care. Except that Draco did care, because the sight of Henry naked was enough for him to start salivating. The shoulders Draco had already been familiar with, and the strong, solid back, too. The dark hair on his body and the high buttocks were another matter. And as for the thick cock—  
  
Draco jumped into the river. It did him no good to dwell on Henry’s cock while he was naked, not if he didn’t want his own one to betray his interest. Draco’s chest tightened from the coolness of the river, but his head felt wide and wakeful as he ducked under and swam for a few strokes. Water splashed onto his face as Henry jumped in beside him.  
  
“Fuck, that’s always so brilliant,” Henry said, before diving under again.  
  
“Yes,” said Draco to the empty air. “It is.”  
  
They swam back and forth until the water stopped feeling quite so cold, and Draco’s aches and pains were forgotten.  
  
After a quick drying charm they redressed – “You think one day we’ll remember to bring clean clothes so we don’t need to put our sweaty ones back on?” – and made their way back to the house. The sun was still up, although everything to the west was slowly yellowing, and the sky had a high, thin feel to it that suggested that night wasn’t far.  
  
Henry made tea to go with the cream cakes, and they sat outside together and watched the sun set. When they climbed into bed that night, Draco’s limbs were heavy and his eyes could barely stay open. He listened to Henry’s even breathing and fell asleep.  
  
*  
  
Instead of light and summery, the air was thick and heavy. Even early in the morning, Draco and Henry were sweating by the time they’d finished setting up their simple stall.  
  
“A breeze would be nice,” said Draco.  
  
“Have some water.” Henry offered Draco a bottle from his bag.  
  
“Aw, you two are cute together.” Nicky said from the nearest stall. “Nice of you to bring your boyfriend again, Henry. I missed him last time.”  
  
“Imagine if she knew we were married,” Henry muttered and Draco laughed rather than telling him off for saying the ‘M’ word. Waking up in a bed with Henry each morning, and eating every meal together certainly looked like married life, he knew.  
  
Looking down at the pots on display, Draco felt a warm glow of pride. Unlike the rather shoddy baskets he’d sold here the first time, he knew that his creams and lotions were good. Henry had made him some wonderful small pots, complete with lids, and they looked good. And of course, Draco had drawn on herb lore rather than magic, so that Muggles could use them. The creams were of the finest quality possible. Draco only hoped that no one looked too closely at his own hands, as they remained in rather a poor state thanks to his day job and a terrible advert for his creams. He knew, though, that without the creams they would be cracked and blistered in addition to being red and dry.  
  
Henry made the first few sales. He was all charm and smiles as he haggled with a pair of middle-aged women.  
  
“Such a nice couple,” one of them said to her companion as they walked off after the sale. “Did you see the way they looked at each other?”  
  
“Why do people keep saying that?” asked Draco, while Henry blushed. Privately though, Draco could admit that perhaps his glances at Henry sometimes lingered a little longer than they should. Henry was, after all, a good-looking man. However much they cooked and slept and even occasionally worked together though, they weren’t a couple. If they were it would be simple for Draco to reach out and squeeze Henry’s leg, or brush that bit of hair away from his face. Or even to lean over, and plant a soft kiss by his ear.  
  
Henry sat back and let Draco take on the next few sales. Compared to their first trip to market together, this was so much more relaxed. They worked in tune with each other, now.  
  
A young couple arrived at the stall, admiring one of Henry’s larger pieces. Henry took over, and Draco watched. He’d thought he was a good salesman, but Henry’s passion about his creations gave him an extra edge. Seeing Henry so  _confiden_ t, was… well, Draco liked it. He did, he could admit to himself, like Henry. More and more.  
  
As they packed up, Henry surprised him with a suggestion about Draco’s range of creams. “As your creams sell well, you should make more… that is, all different ones. I could make a range of pots. I think it would be good. You know, to be partners in this.” His eyes were earnest as he looked at Draco. Earnest and yet unsure, as though he were worried that Draco wouldn’t agree.  
  
“Partners?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Draco nodded, excited at the thought of expanding to a whole range. “That would be great!”  
  
When they got home Henry cooked, and Draco sat down to try to sketch out some ideas for new products. He paused in making lists of herbs to look up at Henry, stirring some sauce at the stove. Did Henry know that this was more than anyone had offered him before? Probably not.  
  
*  
  
The sound of birdsong woke Draco. Or rather, he drifted into consciousness and the first sound he heard, before even he opened his eyes, were the birds tweeting and twittering in the woods behind the cottage. He smiled, his body still lax and replete with rest. His eyelids were heavy as he opened them to the bright morning, and he appreciated the simple white walls of Henry’s home. Sometimes at the Manor he would open his eyes and have to close them again, assaulted by colours and shape he wasn’t ready to deal with yet.  
  
On this morning, though, Draco felt more than the clearness of his head in the bright space around him. There was also a lazy warmth, borne of his dreams, still licking pleasurably through him. He closed his eyes, and let himself fall back into the images that had filled his night.  
  
A hand, brushing across his back.  
  
Eyes, startlingly green and full of laughter. And heat.  
  
Desire building thickly in his thighs, in his balls; in his aching cock.  
  
Draco shifted in the bed, aware suddenly that his pyjamas were sticky with half-dried come. He’d found such morning discoveries embarrassing when younger, but now he saw them as sign that there was a delicious dream to retrieve. And what better way to spend this moment between sleeping and waking? Henry was still asleep, his warmth mingling with Draco’s where their legs almost, but not quite, touched.  
  
He willed more memories of the dream to come back to him. He wanted to luxuriate in the details, to relive them in some small way.  
  
Wooden desks and cauldrons: in his dream he had been in the old Potions classroom at school, the scent of magic sharp in air. There had been no words in his dream, no speaking, only a painfully slow stripping away of robes and shirts, of ties and trousers. A tanned hand had grasped at Draco’s face and he been kissed, greedily. He had sought out the firm pad of muscles along a back, the rough silk of legs, the rasp of stubble. Heated cocks had touched, and his own arse had been kneaded, with more of that same desperate hunger.  
  
He’d run his hands through mess of hair, the cold rim of glasses pressing against his face as he all but tried to eat the mouth clamouring at his own.  
  
And then he’d been spun, roughly, and pushed against the high counter.  
  
Lying in bed next to Henry, Draco swallowed at the memory. His cock was filling, rising again and his breath hitched as he remembered the sensation of a thick, fat cock pressing bluntly into him. Normally he’d have woken at this point, disappointed in the dream ending before it had begun. But this time it had continued.  
  
He’d felt the press of the potions’ bench pressing into his ribs, felt its years-worn wood under his chest as he was laid out over it and fucked hard and deep. His arms were held down and he could feel the strength of the man behind him. It was there in each moaned-out thrust, in the fingers around his wrists, and in the weight of the body above him.  
  
Draco ran a hand down to his cock, now lying hot and leaking against his stomach. He could hear Henry breathing beside him, slow and regular in sleep. Draco ran his fingers over the swollen head of his cock, sticky with precome. He wanted – oh, how he wanted – to take himself in hand and stroke in time to the remembered rhythm. Instead, he ran a finger, his touch light, around the top of his cock. His mouth fell open at the sensation,.  
  
He had come in his dream with a muffled groan, the air stinging as he sucked it back into his ragged lungs. The fucking had continued, each rub of the wood on his cock a torture of sensation, until the other man had come and lowered his head to kiss Draco on the back. The two of them had slid down to the stone floor, and kissed again. They pulled back and looked at each other, satisfied grins on their faces.  
  
Draco had looked adoringly at messy hair, a lightning scar, and green eyes.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Draco was near-wanking in bed next to his sleeping sort-of husband to a dream of being fucked by Harry fucking Potter. He sat up, and looked over at Henry, who was still fast asleep. Carefully, Draco got out of bed – checking on Henry one more time before standing – and went to the small bathroom.  
  
He splashed some water on his face, then looked at himself in the mirror. Where had that come from? Potter had most certainly never fucked him at school. Or anywhere else, for that matter. He looked down. His traitorous erection had not gone away with the Potter revelation, and he needed to pee. With some difficulty, Draco managed this task then stepped into the shower. His dream – whatever it meant that it had included Potter – was still swirling in his mind, and it was inevitable, when his hand wandered down and began to move in earnest.  
  
After he came Draco’s cock finally deflated, leaving him feeling sordid, somehow. He couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he’d just cheated on Henry, with the memory of a man he’d hated more than anything else. Seeing as nothing was actually happening between him and Henry, it was all rather confusing.  
  
When he got out of the shower and Henry was there, a pot of coffee sitting on the table, Draco didn’t know where to look. He noticed, though, the way Henry’s pyjamas revealed the suggestion of a curve at the crotch, of a slight bounce as he walked. He looked away, and tried to shake off the last of his dream.  
  
A day at the sinks would quell any remnants of it, he was sure.  
  
*  
  
A run of late nights meant that Draco hadn’t seen Henry much, but he’d finally scored a half day, covering for Amy, and he had time to catch up on some his household chores. Better to get them done now, than have to waste his precious day off on them.  
  
After a night of rain, a brisk wind had pushed the clouds away, leaving behind a clear blue sky and bright sun. Draco had taken the opportunity to wash some clothes and hang them out to dry. After only an hour or so they were ready to take in, and Draco pushed the door open with his foot, carrying the basket of clean laundry in his arms. He laughed when he saw his trunk, still shrunk small, on the window sill. In the end he only wore the clothes Henry had helped him pick out that first day; any more would have meant extra washing, and he’d had enough of soapy water and sinks to last him a life time.  
  
When he’d gone out into the garden, Henry had still been asleep. Draco tried to get up before Henry when he could, otherwise he ran the danger of having to make a dash for the bathroom with his pyjamas inappropriately tented at the front. Damn Henry and his tendency to stretch out in his sleep: more than once, Draco had woken to find Henry’s arm draped across his chest or pressed up against his back. His stupid cock twitched at the thought of all that hot skin.  
  
Draco stood, transfixed, the basket still in his arms. He could hear the sound of the shower running, but over it came Henry’s voice as it soared in song.  
  
“ _’o sole, ’o sole mio, sta nfronte a te,_  
 _sta nfronte a te!”_  
  
He recognised the song: it was the one Henry had sung under his window, all those weeks ago. At the time, all Draco had seen was a slovenly drunk, his robes in tatters and twigs in his hair. Now though, everything had changed. Draco put the basket down, and sat on the edge of the bed, better to listen to Henry. Draco’s chest ached as Henry’s voice rose and soared. Henry sang to himself every now and then, but softly, under his breath. He’d been away on the occasional nights to sing, but Draco hadn’t really considered it once he’d seen Henry in his workshop.  
  
The singing stopped, and along with the sound of running water. Draco hastily stood, and began to fold the clothes in the basket. The bathroom door opened, a cloud of steam pouring out along with Henry, still half-wet with the towel around his hips.  
  
Water dripped across Henry’s tanned chest, and glistened in his hair. Draco swallowed, then picked up another t-shirt and shook it out before folding it.  
  
“I didn’t realise that you were here,” Henry said. “Sorry if my singing was a little loud.”  
  
“No, no. It was good. I mean– that is– I like it when you sing.”  
  
“Good.” Henry smiled.  
  
Draco smiled back. Henry’s nipples stood out and he shivered.  
  
“Any clean pants in there?”  
  
“Lucky for you I looked on the floor down your side of the bed.” He threw a pair over to Henry. “Do you need a t-shirt, too?”  
  
“Please.”  
  
Draco tried to keep his focus on the laundry, on the task of shaking and folding and making neat piles of clothes. Henry made it hard, though, when he pulled away the towel and wiped his chest and arms dry, revealing dangling flesh and dark wet curls. A strangled sound half-escaped from Draco’s mouth, and he bit his lip. He picked up another t-shirt, his cheeks burning at the thought that Henry had heard him. When he looked up again, Henry had put on the clothes Draco had given him. He was though, giving Draco a strange look.  
  
“Sorry; I’m so used to drying off here.” Henry looked a little sheepish. His lips looked warm. Inviting. Draco wanted to kiss him, to find out what they tasted like. He wanted to take Henry’s clothes off and lay him down on the bed. Henry kept talking, seemingly oblivious to Draco’s desires. “There’s not much room in—”  
  
  
“I know. And… it’s not that.” Draco made a decision, and stepped forwards, the laundry forgotten. He walked around the bed, stopping in front of Henry. Gently, he reached out for Henry’s cheek. Henry must have shaved, his face was smooth.  
  
“Draco,” Henry brought his hand up to Draco’s, and for a heartbeat, for one tortured breath in, Draco thought that Henry might pull him in for a kiss. But instead, Henry pulled Draco’s hand away from his face and stepped back. “I–” He stopped, and bit his lip.  
  
It was enough. Draco’s chest tightened. “You don’t want to.”  
  
“I– I can’t. It’s… it’s not right.”  
  
“Don’t you like me?”  
  
“Of course I do!”  
  
“I like you.” Draco was trembling now. He wasn’t even sure what he was saying. But he could still see Henry’s lips, and the drip of water coming down from his hair, travelling down beside Henry’s ear. He needed to kiss Henry: otherwise this moment would slip away and it would never happen. He reached out for Henry’s arm, and this time Henry didn’t pull away.  
  
“Please don’t,” Henry whispered. “Not… not now. I’m sorry.”  
  
“So am I.” Draco let go. He walked back to the other side of the bed without looking back at Henry, and picked up a pair of socks. He returned to sorting through the laundry, firing pressing charms at shirts and trousers until there were a series of neat piles on the bed. His throat was tight with anger at himself. He should never have tried to kiss Henry.  
  
When everything was stowed away, Henry brought him a cup of tea.  
  
“I don’t want there to be any awkwardness between us,” Henry said.  
  
Draco sighed. “There won’t be.” He took the tea and sat at the table. “I…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve done some sketches of the pots for my cream, if you want to look at them.”  
  
Henry looked startled, but nodded. “Yes, that would be good.” His eyes though, were troubled. Rather than sit close together as they normally did they both left a space between them. Draco tried to focus on the designs, but as they spoke he was no less aware of the effect Henry had on him.  
  
*  
  
When he woke the next morning, for the first time since he’d started Draco looked forward to going to work. Maybe after they’d had a bit of space from one another things could go back to normal. He hoped so, anyway.  
  
*  
  
Draco much preferred the early shift, the one that finished in the evening rather than the wrong side of midnight. He patted down his pockets, as normal, and rolled his shirt sleeves back down. The back passages of the hotel – the domain of servants, which, Draco was all too aware, now included him – were stark in comparison with the wood panelling and thick rugs to be found in the guest rooms and public areas. Draco’s feet were heavy, and it didn’t help that he didn’t have beer and a river and… and Henry to look forward to. The awkwardness between them had begun to ease, but Henry was out on a singing gig. Draco sighed. He was trying hard to accept that things were better staying the way they were, because being with Henry, having him to come home to… for the first time in a long time, Draco didn’t feel alone. Did it really matter if he got into Henry’s pants or not? Surely the important thing was that he’d found someone to whom he didn’t feel superior or inferior: when he was with Henry he could be himself.  
  
As he reached the servant’s entrance, Draco paused. He could hear music coming from the other end of the servants’ passage, where it ran behind the ballroom. There was a big wedding party on, he knew, but he hadn’t really paid any attention to the details. He wished he had now, because the music playing was  _Do the Hippogriff_  by the  _Weird Sisters_. It had been a big hit when he was at Hogwarts, and he was swept up in a nostalgic longing for the familiarity of wizards. And for the innocence and certainty of his youth.  
  
His feet turned in the direction of the ballroom, and he walked towards the music.  
  
 _‘Can you dance like a hippogriff?_  
 _Ma ma ma, ma ma ma, ma ma ma.’_  
  
Draco smiled at the lyrics. Everyone had just jumped up and down to this one, if he remembered correctly.  
  
He decided that it wouldn’t hurt to peek; he didn’t have to rush home. There were screens at the back of the ballroom, designed so no one would ever catch sight of a servant or house-elf. His head nodding to the beat, Draco slid behind a screen and peeked out. His first impression was of red hair. Lots of red hair, everywhere. It only took a few seconds for his horrified brain to work out that this must be a Weasley wedding. Before he could back away though. Draco saw that there was a band playing the music; one he’d only seen once before. The Weird Sisters were playing at a Weasley Wedding! And Draco had probably washed all the dishes they’d eaten off.  
  
“They still sound good, don’t they?” A deep voice asked, causing Draco to jump. He turned to see a short but muscular red-haired man, with freckles that near enough covered his entire face “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
“You’re…” Draco cleared his throat, which had suddenly become tight and his mouth dry. “You’re a Weasley, aren’t you?”  
  
“Let me guess: my hair gives me away?”  
  
“Your hair and everyone else’s,” said Draco, looking into the room once more.  
  
“I’m Charlie.” He held out his hand to Draco, who stared at it as though it might bite. Charlie’s fingers were thick and calloused, and for a moment Draco was reminded of Henry.  
  
“I’m not sure if you’ll want to shake my hand when you know who I am,” said Draco.  
  
“You’re Draco Malfoy,” said Charlie, extending his hand again. Draco took it, aware that his own hand was an attractive boiled-red colour, as well as being dry and a little cracked. He didn’t let go at the end of the hand shake. “Funny, you don’t seem how I’d expected you to be.”  
  
“You knew I’d be here?” asked Draco, confused.  
  
“No. I’ve heard my brother and Harry talking about you.”  
  
Heat rushed to Draco’s cheeks at the mention of Potter: he could still remember every detail of the dream he’d had about him.  
  
“But I’m a believer in making my own mind up about people, and so far I haven’t seen you sneer once.”  
  
Draco laughed. “Oh, I’ve given up on sneering.” He held up his hands. “I’m here because I work here. I wash dishes in the kitchen.”  
  
Charlie’s eyes widened, and he picked up one of Draco’s hands, turning it over to examine it better. “Your hands look almost as bad as mine.” He sniffed. “Except that you smell of roses.”  
  
“Tricks of the trade.” Draco grinned. He stopped smiling, though, as he caught sight of a tall Weasley with scars running down his face, dancing with his arms in the air. “I… I’m sorry. For what I was like. For my family. For… everything.”  
  
“I know,” said Charlie. “Or rather, I can see that you’ve changed.” He turned back to the ballroom, where Ginny Weasley was wearing a big white dress and leaping up and down with a tall man in a kilt. “We all grow up in the end,” he added, with a wistful sigh.  
  
“Your little sister… wait, is she getting married? To Potter?” Something twisted inside of him.  
  
“What?” Charlie turned to Draco, looking amused. “Er, married, yes. But definitely not to Harry.”  
  
Draco wondered if Potter was in the room. He didn’t know how he’d react if he saw him. Although he hadn’t seen him since the trials, that dream had been so detailed… it had felt real. Before Draco could ask about Potter, though, a man jumped out from the crowd, almost crashing into Draco.  
  
“Sorry,” he said, the merry grin on his face saying the opposite. He wasn’t wearing his trademark glasses, but his lightning-bolt scar was clear enough to see.  
  
“Potter,” said Draco, his breath leaving him all at once.  
  
“Malfoy! Come on; don’t stand there like a lemon. Dance!” Potter grabbed hold of Draco’s hand and dragged him onto the dance floor.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“Dancing. You should try it, too.” Potter reached out and spun Draco around, knocking him off balance. As Draco tripped, he heard a tearing noise. He landed in something soft and sticky: cake. His pocket had ripped open, and all the food he’d hidden in there had spilled across the floor.  
  
“I—” Draco looked about him in horror, at the ruined food, at the crumbs and the faces peering at him. He could hear the whispers start and he could hear the name ‘Malfoy’ being repeated with laughter. He wanted to sink into the floor, or better still vanish entirely. Instead he rose to his feet and ran back to the screens at the back of the door. He had to get out, and then he could Apparate home back to Henry and he’d just never come here again. There must be other places that needed dishwashers. He ran blindly out, pushing past people in his eagerness to get to the exit.  
  
A rough hand grabbed his wrist.  
  
“Leave me alone, Charlie. I shouldn’t be here—”  
  
“It’s not Charlie.”  
  
Draco looked up. Harry Potter was looking back at him, although now he no longer looked merry. Draco frowned, because Potter didn’t look angry or smug, either.  
  
“I want to go home.”  
  
Potter shook his head. “You should stay. Whatever you think, you do belong here.”  
  
Draco yanked his hand free. His mouth was quivering and he was damned if he was going to cry like a little boy in front of Potter. Once was enough for that.  
  
“Draco, I want you to be here, with me.”  
  
Potter had gone mad. It was the only explanation. Draco stared at him, completely confused. A memory that wasn’t real, of being kissed, flashed through his mind. Draco pushed it away: this was the man whose nose he’d broken, who he’d fought for years. Not some phantom lover.  
  
“Maybe this will help.” Potter pulled out his wand, and Draco took a step back. If Potter hexed him – or worse – how long would it be before anyone found him? “I’m not going to hurt you.” Draco relaxed a fraction when Potter pointed the wand at his own face.  
  
A bushy beard sprouted from Potter’s face, and his robes became thicker and turned from green to red. “Recognise me?” Potter said. “I think that you called me ‘Thrushbeard’ before.”  
  
Thrushbeard. The wizard Draco had laughed at, all that time ago? The one who had precipitated the whole married-off-to-a-stranger thing? Anger built as he stared at the beard. His parents had tossed him out, because of  _Harry Potter_? “You’re too late if you want to  _marry_  me, you know,” he spat out. “My father married me off months ago. Without a penny, too.”  
  
“I don’t need money.”  
  
Understanding dawned on Draco. He remembered Henry pointing down to Minplebury Hall, and his own frustration at discovering that it belonged to Thrushbeard. “No. This is all yours, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yes, but that’s not what I meant.”  
  
Draco took another step backwards when Potter pointed his wand at himself again. This time he became a Muggle in a football shirt. It took Draco a second to place where he’d seen him before. “The drunk! The one who nearly crashed into my stall! But… I don’t understand.”  
  
The drunken Muggle wavered and Potter was once more in his finery in front of Draco. When Potter raised his wand a third time, Draco stood firm. Before Potter pointed the wand at himself, Draco noticed that his nails were a little dirty, with brown smudged in the cuticles, almost like clay—  
  
Potter’s wand flashed. First the scar faded, then his eyes turned from green to blue. Before his chin lengthened subtly though, Draco saw who he was.  
  
“Henry? HENRY?”  
  
Henry nodded. Or rather, Potter did. Draco blinked as connections leapt up all once. Henry, Harry. Henry Singer the Singer. Harry Potter the Potter. Twinkly eyes. Not needing to ask anything about Draco’s past.  
  
It felt as though the edges of the world were falling away, and Draco stumbled, disorientated. “How much of it was real?”  
  
Henry– Potter spoke quickly, as though worried that Draco wouldn’t let him finish. “All of it. The cottage is my home, and my friends do disapprove of how isolated my life is. I use ‘Henry Singer’ as my professional name. And I had grown that beard, although I shaved it off the night you laughed at it.”  
  
“I…” Draco reached out to the wall for support. He looked up at Henry as he made one more connection. “You’re not poor. You’re stinking rich! You own this place…” Thoughts were racing through his head now, chasing one another. “You… you made me work here, while all the while you could have eaten anything you wanted, any time you wanted? We could have lived like kings!”  
  
“You…” Henry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You were so  _mean_  at that ball. I spoke at your trial and had faith in you, and it felt like you had taken all that and thrown it away. Like I’d got you wrong.” He looked up at Draco. “I wanted to see what you were like without all the fancy clothes, and the house-elves and your bloody parents.”  
  
“But why? I still don’t understand.”  
  
“I felt responsible for you. I saved you, from the fire, at the trials, and I felt I needed to know that it had been worth it. I went home after the ball, shaved, and came up with my plan. I went back to Wiltshire and I watched the sun come up over Stonehenge. I, er, may have had a few drinks to settle my nerves. Then I crashed into a tree on the way to the manor. After that it all happened so fast. And you…” Henry looked at him beseechingly. “You, it turns out, were worth it.”  
  
A feeling was growing in Draco, a hard, tight sensation in his chest. He was, he realised, fucking livid. “You bastard!” He poked Henry in the chest, shoving him backwards. “I fucking hate my job! You made me work as a fucking servant, a house-elf!”  
  
“I know,” said Henry. “Your poor hands. But you… you were happy, weren’t you?”  
  
“I—” All the indignities stacked up, but then he remembered diving into the river and drinking beer as the sun set. Draco deflated, because damn him, Potter was right. He still felt a tight knot of anger though, at the thought that Henry hadn’t been real. Wasn’t real. That he was lost to Draco now. No more river, no more sunsets. “That’s immaterial now. It was all a lie. Change yourself back. Henry is a lie.”  
  
Henry’s mouth – the one that Draco had stared at so much recently – turned down and then shifted, subtly, as his face changed from  _Henry_  to  _Harry_. He still looked miserable.  
  
“Draco, it’s still me.” He rubbed a hand across his face, in a gesture that Draco knew well. He could see the clay on Harry’s hands, but at the same time he suddenly remembered seeing Potter make the same gesture, hundreds of times, at Hogwarts. Why hadn’t he seen this before? Why hadn’t he noticed?  
  
“No wonder you wouldn’t kiss me.”  
  
Potter froze. “What—”  
  
“You know what I’m talking about.”  
  
“I… I wanted to. But not as Henry. As me.”  
  
“It was Henry I was falling for.”  
  
They stared at each other. Draco’s heart was beating so hard he was surprised they couldn’t hear it, echoing off the stone walls. Draco broke away first. “I don’t see how this can work.”  
  
“But you’re considering it?” Potter’s voice was brittle. Hopeful.  
  
“I…”  
  
“And what if I kissed you now, as me?”  
  
Draco felt as though he were made of treacle, slow in his movements. His first thought was to bluster, to sneer. But Potter’s mouth was Henry’s mouth, and he knew what Potter looked like when he slept, and what he looked like diving into a river. He had seen his naked—  
  
“How much did you disguise with glamours?” Draco asked.  
  
“What?” Potter had been leaning in to kiss Draco, but now he pulled back.  
  
Draco looked down, pointedly.  
  
“Oh. Um, no, that was all me.” Potter blushed a furious red.  
  
“In that case…” Draco reached out for Potter’s robes, and pulled him in tight. This might look like Potter in dress robes, but he could smell coffee and clay, and the open scent of a fast-moving river. He closed his eyes and inhaled Henry. Henry, Harry… could he live with the difference? Warm lips met his, lips that curved into a smile then kissed him back.  
  
Draco pulled him closer. His hands, for so long held tight at his side, travelled over Harry’s back. Harry kissed with greedy intensity, and Draco broke off the kiss with a start.  
  
“I had a dream,” he said. “I dreamt that you… that we…” He moved Harry’s hair aside to touch the scar on his forehead. “But in my dream, it was you.” He swallowed before trying the name out. “Harry.”  
  
This time it was Harry whose face clouded in confusion. “Me?”  
  
“Maybe I was beginning to notice who you really were, I just didn’t want to see it.”  
  
“And now?”  
  
Draco pulled Harry back close to him. “Now? I don’t care.” He kissed Harry, his fingers seeking out the opening in his robes. He needed to feel the body he knew so well, the one that slept beside him every night. He wanted to see it. Harry groaned as Draco found skin.  
  
“I want more,” Harry rasped, planting kisses on Draco’s neck. Draco squirmed, and ground his erection into Harry’s.  
  
“Me too.”  
  
Harry kissed him again.  
  
“In my dream,” Draco said in a quiet but strained voice. “In my dream we stripped each other naked and then you fucked me.”  
  
Harry practically leapt on him, sliding his hand down Draco’s pants and grabbing his bare arse.  
  
Draco wasn’t exactly thinking straight, but he pulled Harry down the corridor. They stumbled through a door, into a room with floor-to-ceiling shelves of folded sheets and towels. The door shut with a soft thud, and clicked as Harry fired a locking spell at it.  
  
Three, maybe four kisses later, their clothes were lying scattered around the room, and Harry had his hand around both their dicks. Draco looked down. Without seeing Harry’s face, all he could see was Henry. And finally he was getting to live out every wet dream, wank and fantasy he could imagine, all at once.  
  
Harry dropped to his knees, and now that Draco could see his face, it didn’t matter. The fact that Harry’s mouth was wrapped around Draco’s dick helped, too, of course. Warmth, and firm hands on his buttocks, was all that Draco could focus on. Draco groaned as Harry’s finger grazed his hole; at the sound Harry began to tease and stroke and probe. His touch was sure, and Draco saw again the way Henry shaped a pot on the wheel. The double sensations of being sucked off and fingered at the same time set off a rolling orgasm, Draco coming in Harry’s mouth, and groaning as he felt Harry swallow down around him.  
  
Draco leant back against a shelf, soft towels pressing into his back, panting. “Fuck,” he said.  
  
Harry stood and licked his lips. His cock was so much bigger and thicker than Draco had seen it before, and it looked delicious. He started to move down to taste it, but Harry stopped him.  
  
“There’s time enough for that,” he said. “But what I want right now. What I  _need_  right now, it to be inside you.” He ran a finger around Draco’s hole, sending a shiver of delight up Draco’s spine. “You must have thought about it, too, if you dreamed it.”  
  
Draco nodded, shakily, then looked around for his shirt. He retrieved a small pot from the pocket, and handed it to Harry. “This should work.”  
  
The smell of Draco’s cream filled the room as Harry opened the pot, redolent of summer afternoons sitting outside the cottage and laughing in the studio as Henry spun small bowls.  
  
“Perfect,” said Harry, and then he slid a couple of fingers in with a cool slickness. “Perfect,” he repeated, his voice cracking slightly.  
  
Draco turned to face the shelf, holding on to brace himself. “Like this.”  
  
Harry ran a hand over his back in answer, then placed his hands on Draco’s hips and began to push in, slowly.  
  
Draco’s awareness narrowed down to the stretching, opening, pushing sensation, his nerves alive with Harry’s touch.  
  
Once Harry was fully in, they rested like that while Harry kissed the top of Draco’s back. Draco pushed back into him and Harry began to move.  
  
It was nothing like Draco’s dream. Harry moved with an achingly slow intensity, his grip on Draco’s hips remaining firm. Gradually his pace quickened, until both their voices, grunting and groaning, filled the room.  
  
Again and again Harry pushed into Draco. The scent of roses mixed with the scent of river and clay. Draco’s knuckles pressed into towels and then his face did too as Harry drove deeper. It was exquisite, and Draco could barely breathe through his moans. He felt Harry begin to shake then come, throbbing deep within his body.  
  
They stayed locked together, and Harry laid his head on Draco’s shoulder. “Brilliant,” he said, before sliding out and slumping to the floor. Draco joined him, fascinated by the way the redness in Harry’s face extended half way down his chest. “How long have we shared a bed?” Harry asked.  
  
“What? Er, two months?”  
  
“All that time we wasted.” He rested his hand on Draco’s knee. Draco could feel him trembling.  
  
Draco grinned. “We could go back and make up for it.”  
  
“No. I mean, not yet.” Harry took a deep breath, as though trying to steady himself. His quivering eased a little. “We’re going to get dressed, and then we’re going to go dancing. I want to show you off to all my friends.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Before you came along I hid in my cottage, and I thought I was happy. But now I see that I wasn’t. It’s so much better there with you. Will you… will you stay? Please?”  
  
“Like I said, we’ve got to get some proper use out of that bed.” He kissed Harry, deep and slow.  
  
*  
  
A hush descended as Harry and Draco walked into the ballroom, hand in hand. Draco caught sight of their reflection in a mirror: Harry’s hair was wilder than normal, and Draco’s own cheeks were still pink with freshly-fucked colour. As he heard his name whispered he slowed down, wanting to walk back toward the door, but Harry kept pulling him on, his grip on Draco’s hand rather firm. They stopped in front of the Weasley matriarch and her collected family.  
  
“Harry?” She said. “What’s going on?”  
  
“I wanted you to meet my husband, Draco Malfoy,” Harry told the assembled group of his friends. Draco almost fell over – whatever introduction he was expecting, it hadn’t been that – but Harry held him steady.  
  
“I…” Ma Weasley looked like she was about to faint. “Your  _husband_?”  
  
“This is who’s been making you so happy?” Granger asked. Harry nodded and squeezed Draco’s fingers.  
  
“We did think you’d met someone, mate,” the final third of the Golden Trio said. “But…  _Malfoy_? Really?”  
  
Draco had never held any illusion about what Potter’s friends had thought of him. It was why it had been such a surprise when Potter had spoken in his favour at the trials. He ran his hand over the back of Harry’s hand, and got a soft squeeze in return.  
  
“I, er.” Draco looked at Harry, and smiled. “He makes me happy, too.”  
  
Ma Weasley staggered back; one of her tall sons stopped her from falling.  
  
“Congratulations,” Charlie said, stepping forward and shaking Harry’s hand vigorously. He turned to Draco. “You’ll do fine,” he said. “Welcome to the family.”  
  
“I don’t understand,” said Ma Weasley.  
  
“Don’t worry, mum. I’m sure Harry will explain it all to us.”  
  
“I will. But not tonight: tonight I want to dance and have fun,” Harry said. “Just… trust me, okay?”  
  
She looked between the two of them, sighed and nodded.  
  
“Hurt him and I’ll kill you,” said Ginny from her side. “But if you’re anything to do with how shagged out —” she scowled as Ron elbowed her in the ribs, “— Sorry, how bloody smug he looks, you’ll do. I almost didn’t recognise him the last time he came over for lunch. He was so disgustingly  _happy_.”  
  
As the mood in the room lightened, the band started up again, and Harry swept Draco up into an exuberant dance.  
  
Harry Potter, his husband. Whatever would his father say?  
  
*  
  
Three months to the day that Henry had crashed through the tree and claimed Draco, they stood before the heavy wooden doors of the Manor.  
  
“Are you ready?” Harry asked, disguised once more as Henry. Draco found it strange to see him as Henry again. Despite all the moping after Henry he’d done, the more time he spent with Harry the more apparent it became that at some level he must have known who Henry really was all along.  
  
Draco knocked on the door. A wizened old house-elf answered it, bowing low when he saw Draco.  
  
“Master Draco, you have returned.”  
  
Draco’s parents were sitting in the Breakfast Room. It was as though no time had passed since the day he had last seen them.  
  
“Oh, darling, you’re home!” His mother rose and threw her arms around him, in a most un-Narcissa way. “I was so worried. We both were.” She held onto his shoulders and looked him over. “But look at you! Your hair needs a good trim, and we need to get you into some proper clothes.”  
  
Draco pulled away from her. “I’m fine, mother.”  
  
Lucius stood behind her, his arms folded and a heavy frown on his face. His lip curled upward ever so slightly as he took in Draco’s appearance, and then he turned to Henry.  
  
“Have you come to return him, then? I’m surprised you lasted this long.” He raised his hand and gestured for Draco to join him. “Come along, Draco. Now that you know how bad things can be, I’m certain you’ll be willing to accept a suitable match.”  
  
“No.”  
  
Lucius froze, and unleashed his most disapproving glare on Draco.  
  
“No?”  
  
“We’re planning on having a proper wedding.” Draco held out the invitation he’d brought with him. “I thought I’d better tell you in person.”  
  
Narcissa took it, and opened the envelope. A frown appeared as she read the invite. “But it says here that you’re marrying Harry Potter.”  
  
“Potter?” Lucius asked sharply, stepping forward and snatching the invite from his wife.  
  
“Oh yes, about that.” Henry said. He turned his wand on himself, revealing his true identity. “I never did thank you properly for handfasting the two of us.”  
  
The invitation fell to the floor.  
  
“I never! I didn’t know—”  
  
“Oh dear,” Narcissa murmured. She turned to Draco and gave a weak smile. “Perhaps we had better all sit down.”  
  
“I don’t think so, mother. We’ve got to get back: it’s market day today and we’ve got work to do.”  
  
“Work?” Narcissa’s voice trembled.  
  
“I brought you this,” Harry said. He pulled out a package from under his robe.  
  
Narcissa unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a wide bowl, dappled with blue glaze. She set it down on the table, where it dwarfed the bone-china cups.  
  
“It’s lovely, thank you Mr Potter.”  
  
“Harry. I made it, for you.”  
  
“You’re a potter, Mr Potter?”  
  
Harry grinned. “It seemed fitting.”  
  
Behind her, Lucius made a strange gurgling noise.  
  
“We best be off,” Draco said. “I do hope we can see you at the wedding.”  
  
“Yes.” Narcissa glanced over at her husband who was staring at Draco rather wildly. “Perhaps if you two go now, we can continue this little visit when your father is feeling a little better.”  
  
Draco declined her offer to collect any of his belongings, and he and Harry set off to walk back down to the gate.  
  
“Do you think he’ll ever recover from the idea that you would marry a simple potter?” Harry said.  
  
Draco grinned in response, then stopped to push Harry up against a tree and kiss him. It didn’t matter what his father thought. He had a life of his own to live now.  
  
  
 _The End_

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